There wasn’t.

I’ve read plenty of drivel in my life.  I was addicted to Mills and Boon at age twelve and devouring Jackie Collins and Sheldon by thirteen.  I’m no stranger to either terrible writing, or porn. Indeed, I will often happily put up with the former in order to enjoy the latter.  A literary snob I most certainly am not.

But then EL James comes along, and sells a million copies in Australia alone.  With writing so excruciatingly awful the letters page of Penthouse appears Chaucerian by comparison.

Her cringe inducing ‘inner goddess’ has outsold Harry and Dumbledore.  A lip chewing, twenty one year old virgin who had never touched herself ‘down there’before her multi orgasmic deflowering at the hands of a BDSM obsessed billionare is being consumed by – one presumes – bored housewives everywhere.

Yes.  She really does refer to her genitalia as ‘down there’.  And says ‘holy crap’.  A lot.

When porn is good, when it is hot, any amount of puerile plot is acceptable.  Who notices the plot anyway?  One skips ahead to the next ‘cock’ reference with indecent haste.  That’s why we picked it up furtively in the back of the bookstore, when no-one was looking.  We knew what we were getting and why.  Nobody needed to pretend it was an actual story.  We were there for the turn-on factor.

There’s a very good reason for the old ‘I only buy it for the articles’ joke about Penthouse: nobody ever did.  And once upon a time, a literary long time ago, we all understood that.

But now we have Christian and Ana, who don’t even have sex until chapter ten.  When they do, you wish they wouldn’t.  Because it isn’t sexy.  It isn’t hot.  And it is so boring, you skim the words and hope Ana’s inner goddess will hurry up and have her next (immediate) tedious orgasm – oh, and sorry, another one – and another – and move on, already.  Preferably to some kind of story.  Because if the sex is bad, there must be a good plot, right?  Or some kind of twist?

Otherwise people wouldn’t buy it, would they?

Wait in vain, my friends.  No twists.  No remotely believable character.  Not even the slightly interesting twist of a supernatural being in there to put some kind of edge on a tale that would have any sane editor crying into their skinny latte.

Just boring sex, absurd dialogue, and a non existent story.  I couldn’t finish it.  Even drunk.  And it drove me to the bottle by Chapter Two.

I read Twilight when it came out, and I loved it.  Read all the books a dozen times each.  The writing was terrible, the dialogue stilted, and the concept a dreadful romance model for young women.  But I loved them anyway.  I understood why they sold, and why they appealed to everyone from passionate teenagers to nursing mothers desperate for a bit of escapism to a world where babies gestated in a matter of weeks, and a mother emerged from childbirth more beautiful than when she went into it.  No mysteries in the appeal there.

EL James obviously thought so, too.  Except she figured that what was missing between Edward and Bella was a bit of between the sheets action.  So she took the characters, sucked out any life they orginally possessed quicker than you can say ‘immortal’, and rehashed Meyer´s bestselling series.  Online, originally, not that you’ll find it anymore.  The tale she wrote as ‘Icy’ on a Twilight fan site is long gone.  A bit too close to the legal bone, one suspects.

At first I thought a marketing guru must have taken on Fifty Shades as a bet.  I imagined Clarkson and Gill sitting in a bar somewhere and having a laugh:

“The Great Unwashed are idiots, Clarkson.  They’ll read anything if one tells them it’s good.”

“Come on, Adrian.  They’re not that easily influenced.  Some of them actually buy Toyota Prius despite me caning the bloody things every chance I get.”

“I’ll make you a bet, then.  Find me a randy thirteen year old who failed English in primary school, get her to write a plotless soft porn series based on Twilight, and I’ll make it a bestseller.”

“What an absolute load of bollocks, Gill.  Even you can’t make people actually pay good money for total rubbish like that.”

“Dinner at Angela Hartnett’s says I can.”

“You’re bloody on, old son.  There’s no way.”

Surely, I thought, there was some devious plot in the background.  A publisher’s sick joke on the masses.  Something we’re all missing.

But it seems not.  People I actually like are reading this.  And plenty of people I’ve never met are saying – in public – that this book changed their lives.

If this is true, then I’m shelving every book idea I’ve ever had.  I’m doing no more research for historical fiction, and I sure as hell am not walking across the Sahara for a couple of years.  I’ll just  throw out my thesauraus, forget everything I’ve ever learned about editing or plot structure, and write about a rich bloke who only likes shagging sexually submissive imbeciles whose inner goddesses don’t even know where their own clitoris is.

And I am never reading another restaurant review by AA Gill, or laughing at Clarkson again.  That may be the most tragic outcome of all.

Oh, Jeremy.  I thought you at least would know where the knob is, and how to push the button.

Apparently not.

I’ve spent a lot of this walk wondering what on earth I was going to write about in another book.  After all, the Sahara it isn’t, and much of the camino has been a solitary ramble with my head buried in Roman ruins.  Much as that fascinates me and I’m sure will be great for the fiction I am hoping to write, I couldn’t imagine it being so fascinating for others to read.

The reality is that when I walk, I think.  A lot.  Small encounters mean everything, and can set me thinking for days.  The way a portly man pats his belly and rumbles with laughter when he expresses astonishment that anyone would want to walk to Santiago de Compostela.  Little old women with bow legs in flowery aprons, leaning on a broom and watching me from the corner of their eye until I call a greeting, at which point they burst into sunny beams, and call back a response.   An old farmer chewing on a toothpick and bemoaning the lack of rain, totally unconcerned with where I have come from or what I am doing, so long as I am happy to pass the time for a moment.

Today I had lunch with a group of French pilgrims.  It’s the first time I’ve spoken French properly in years.  I knew it would be hard after focussing exclusively on Spanish for the past few months, and so it was.  Even though I could understand the conversation perfectly, when I began to speak it was a dreadful mix of verbs and accents.  Being French, they were wonderfully patient.  But I was in France for long enough to wince at my ineptitude, and be sensitive to their tolerance.

It wasn’t only the language issue that posed food for thought.  What really got me thinking was how different the experience was, for me, to be amongst French society again.  There are so many small things that differentiate one culture from another, that give one a sense of being a stranger again, until you remember the rhythm of the language and ways.

In this case the lunch opened with a wry prediction of what the menu of the day would be.  Now I, just as any pilgrim I imagine, am well accustomed to the oft-recited choices, and can usually predict what first and second plates will be.  (Everybody can predict dessert – crème caramel, anyone?)  But I felt strangely protective of Spanish customs in the face of French sophistication.  The meals are so cheap – far cheaper than anywhere else in Europe – and whilst not necessarily haute cuisine, they are inevitably wholesome, filling, and served with copious amounts of wine and bread.  Frankly, I dare you to find somewhere else in Western speaking countries where you can enjoy a three course meal plus bread, wine, coffee and dessert for ten euros or less.  So whilst I thoroughly understand the slightly contemptuous amusement of French people at being served the same menu on a regular basis, since – let’s face it – France is the home of the most glorious gastronomy on the planet, I also feel rather indignant on behalf of Spanish food.

Then came the wine appreciation, sniffing and tasting.  It would be unimaginable for a French person NOT to do this – again, I understand.  It is part of the cult of food worship that dominates the country.  The wine, which came in an earthen ware jug, was pronounced too cold.  Which it was, I suppose.  But it is also free.  And bloody drinkable.  And it keeps coming.

Ordering was taken very seriously, with much discussion over the merits of one dish versus another, and what may be the regional speciality.  I began to really enjoy this, having forgotten just how seriously French people take the matter of food.  But I was still pretty tense, especially since it was a terrible shock to realise just how bad my mastery of the language has become – not to mention my accent.  After years of speaking French in Arabic countries (North Africans think I speak French perfectly, since it is liberally interspersed with Arabic), it was bad enough.  But now I sound like a Spaniard speaking French WITH Arabic in between.  Quelle horreur.

The conversation turned to political matters, and I became absorbed, and began to ‘hear’ the words more clearly.  In some ways though, it felt like an old record being replayed, and I stopped for a moment to consider why.

I thought of the conversations I’ve had recently with Spanish people.  Often in albergues we’ve sat around late into the night over wine, talking about anything and everything.  One of the things that has struck me – which, to be fair, was the same when I was initially in France – is the pride and knowledge common amongst the average person in relation to national history.  I’ve had Spaniards literally talking over each other in their eagerness to tell me about a certain site I must visit, or explaining the finer points of the origins of a particular tradition.  But where the two cultures differ, I would say, is in the discussion of ‘issues’.

Spaniards will wax lyrical into the small hours about history, traditions, architecture, or food.  But raise politics, and they tend to change the subject fairly quickly – or just laugh and shake their heads in despair.  Apart from always enquiring whether or not Australia has an economic crisis – something that dominates every new bulletin here – they are supremely indifferent to the wider political landscape.  I realise this is a sweeping generalisation, but in one lunchtime, I couldn’t help but notice how the conversation with my French companions turned immediately to a fairly sophisticated discussion of international politics, immigration issues, questions about the dominant cultural and political factors in Australia, and so on.  Spaniards would have tired of it long ago and gone back to having a good laugh, or singing.

Part of this political indifference no doubt has its roots in the oppressive years of Franco’s regime.  But it is also indicative of a deeper variation in culture, a keystone if you like of what makes a country turn.

If France’s fulcrum is its political history, the fight for intellectual freedom – amongst other things – then Spain’s is it’s quiet pride in knowing that without ever really having to try, it has been the canvas on which much of Western civilisation’s history has been painted.  If I was intrigued by the extraordinary experiences of France over the past five hundred years when I travelled through the country, in Spain history stretches back to antiquity and beyond in a clear kaleidoscope of events and evidence.  History is not stories or battles in Spain.  It lies in every rock and hillside, in cave paintings and fragments of ceramic lying in a ditch.  It lies in the tools farmers use every day.

Our lunch wound up being a wonderful time – luckily, given that the group is likely to accompany me every day until Santiago – and a great opportunity to grasp back some of my lost language.   I was reminded of the innate courtesy of French people, in the way they communicate with each other, and delight in new knowledge and good food.  Many of the comments they made, though, reminded me of the shock I felt when I first reached Spain after walking through France.  They remarked with tolerant horror about how loud everyone is.  How the television is always on, and how there is no order to anything.  I recalled immediately how shocked I was the day I crossed the Pyrenees, how it felt like the volume had suddenly been turned up ten notches, and the interior decorator had left the building.

I thought afterwards about the differences between the two cultures, and I came up with a few things.  One of the qualities that characterises Spain for me is the total lack of cynicism.  Spaniards couldn’t care less if the tables and chairs don’t match – as long as everyone has a seat.  They speak without inhibition or reserve because they are exuberant and enthusiastic about everything.  As long as you are smiling, they are smiling back; and nothing is a problem for any more than a minute.

After so long in Arabic countries, I am far more at home in a country that has absorbed the Moorish qualities of acceptance, hospitality, and open hearted delight in the world at large, than I am in one which wants to discuss the finer points of religion over dinner.  I am not critical of French culture, don’t get me wrong – I think, like many, I will always be rather in awe of it.  It is simply a question of feeling at home somewhere.  And in Spain, where beauty really is something people see on the inside, is where I feel most comfortable.

One of my favourite Spanish words is ‘guapa’ – or ‘guapo’ in the masculine.  It is more often used for the feminine.  When I first arrived, I thought it referenced specifically a pretty girl, and I was rather flattered when it was applied to me.  Over time though, I came to see it applies to anyone of an open heart, with an open smile.  An old woman who grins toothlessly at the world and grips your hand in friendship can be as ‘guapa’ as a young girl with a pretty face.  The word is said with delight and affection, a term of familiar endearment that I find incredibly touching.  Old men who lean across their fences and scrutinise my face as I talk, then pronounce me ‘guapa’ as they take my hand in their weathered old one, touch my heart with their almost childlike delight at the discovery.

This possibly sounds like a long and rather disjointed rant, for which I apologise.  But I have been doing a lot of thinking, lately, about what I have discovered on this walk, and during my time in Spain.  Sometimes it takes seeing the culture through someone else’s eyes to realise how acclimatised to it you have become.

I am writing this in the local bar.  The barman was deeply concerned that I get the best internet reception, so he set up a table especially for me in the place where he said the wireless worked most effectively.  I asked for a glass of wine and he added a small plate of superb quality jamon iberico – not a typical tapas at all, given it retails for about sixty euros a kilo, but because he and his friend were having some together, and it would be rude not to share.  A bad Spanish soap opera is on the telly at warp fifty volume, but nobody takes any notice.  Three old men in their Sunday best drink liquer and debate whether it will rain or not.  A group of teenagers sit at a table with soft drinks, exchanging quips with the old men.  Occasionally a family group will arrive to take a glass of wine, and everyone will crow over the baby in the pram, or swing the toddler up to the counter to take a special treat from the barman.  They all call ‘good afternoon’ to me when they walk in, and when i smile and answer, they beam back at me and ask how the camino has been.  Sometimes they say nothing, but wish me ‘buen camino’ when they leave.

It is siesta time, but when I say I should be lying down, they laugh, and one of them asks where I started walking.  When I say ‘Granada’, they all laugh again, and one remarks : “In Andalucia, siesta is a sport”.  I crack up – it is so true.  Here in the north things may be closed, but it doesn’t have the dead still of Andalucia in the afternoon.  I realise that the rhythms of the country are my own now, and I love the feeling.

I have only 17 days of walking left until Santiago.  I am going to continue out to Finisterre, the Western Cape that I never reached last time – because I was in such a hurry.  I’m tired of being in a hurry.  I need more time to reflect on the things I do know, and notice the ones I don’t.  I’ve no intention of hurrying one more day than I need to.  And I can feel the book in there – until today, I didn’t know how much I have thought along these stretches.  And I was terribly worried that nobody would be interested in what I thought, anyway.

After Sahara came out there were a lot of online comments that spoke of how ‘self absorbed’ my writing is.  It affected me a lot more than I let on, touching the nerve that tells me my choices have been selfish, or my journeys introverted.  Even now when I read something that cites the most boring parts of my books those where I talk about myself, I cringe in self conscious shame, and vow that my next book will be full of history and external observations, and totally without self reflection.

One of the other conversations I had recently was about exactly this topic – talking about what people like in a travel book.  The participants were a wide range of pilgrims, males and females of different ages.  In the end the conclusion was both enlightening and, in some ways, unsurprising.  The men – most over fifty – said they don’t like reading about relationships, or internal processing.  They want to know about the place, and what happened.

The women said they wanted to know how the author felt, and what his or her reaction was to the people and situations they encountered.  Two very different perspectives.

I realised that I write the way I write because it is simply the way I see the world I travel through.  I can’t just describe a place without explaining the personalities that make it what it is, and in turn, how those personalities make me reconsider my own.  I am not so interested in conquering the world through an expedition as I am taking tea with the people I meet on the way.

Sometimes I have felt really guilty about taking days off in the cities I pass.  I should carry on, I think.  Do the miles.  Tick the next albergue register.  Get to Santiago.

But I have already done all of that.  I spent three years racing to make a deadline that circumstances forbade me from completing despite my desperate desire to do so.  And now I want to enjoy every step, and take the time to think whatever thoughts I want to.

I don’t know what kind of book will come out of this walk, although I have ideas bursting out of my head.  But perhaps the last few days have taught me that whatever does come, it will be mine, told my way, and full of the things that I find important.

And, yes, I guess that makes me self absorbed, indulgent, selfish and all the other sobriquets I earn online.  But ultimately, it’s my book.  It’s my camino.  And I need to do both the way that makes the most sense to me.

Thanks to all those who responded to my question about travel writing on facebook…you also gave me a lot of food for thought.

Oh …. a lovely postscript to this.  The men in the bar insisted on buying me a drink and taking a photo on their

Always one for good luck, I headed there on my first day, and found him, too.  I figured that was my sign to take a few days off and escape the freezing conditions whilst attempting to write a little.

I’d always planned to take a break in Salamanca.  When I was deciding in which city in Spain I would take a language course, I wound up choosing between Cordoba, Granada, and Salamanca.  Granada, as we know, won, and for me it was definitely the right choice.  But Salamanca has a heart very similar to Granada’s – although with a slightly more Northern and austere atmosphere  than the fun loving Andalucian city.

The walk here was certainly a welcome change from the rather flat stretch that had gone before.   Broad cereal plains gave way to beautiful wooded dehesas, and picturesque old stone walls.  The walking roamed through farms and up over high mountains, some snow covered even now (and there is more expected, even in Salamanca - another very good reason to stay put!).

It was also the beginning, for me, of the ‘real’ camino – the movement from one albergue to another, with other pilgrims for company every night.  One of the reasons I chose this particular route is that it is not known for being particulary busy.  On the Camino Frances, by contrast, which I walked back in 2005, there is apparently now a race every night to reach the next albergue and find a bed.  Nothing about this appealed to me, so I sought out the lesser walked option.

But there was certainly no shortage of folk on it during this stretch.  Some of the action was a result of Easter, which saw a lot of Spaniards take to their bikes and cycle a section of the Camino; but in general, it seems that despite the ‘crisis’ – which dominates news and conversation to an exhausting level – people are still finding the finance to go walking.  There was a core group of roughly 10 people that wound up in the albergues each night, with a further half a dozen who came and went, according to what distance they chose to walk.  For me one of the great thing was the amount of Spaniards on the route – it was fantastic language practice, and they were all incredibly patient in helping me speak.

I found myself walking often with Helga, a Danish lady who set a good pace, and was wonderful company.  A Japanese girl, Sachi, and a Dutch lady with the wonderful moniker of Joke formed our little female coterie.  They were all experienced walkers, and had each done a camino before.  Joke has made several, along various routes.  I am always impressed by Sacandinavians and Dutch when it comes to languages, and these two were no exception – Helga had guide books in two languages, and spoke another two.  And why – WHY is it, that guide books in German are always the best??  And why can we never get them in English?

Albergues seemed to have raised their standards rather, since the last time I walked.  All had hot showers, and extra blankets on the beds to throw over your sleeping bag.  Some of them were positively luxurious.

So far there was perhaps only one slightly dodgy one, and even that would have been fine, had it not happened to coincide with a sudden – not to be repeated – plethora of pilgrims.

In the small town of Grimaldo we elected to do a short day, and arrived at the tiny bar and next door albergue after 20km.  A few others turned up, and we sat down to lunch.

Then they kept coming.

And coming.

The albergue had 12 beds in total, consisting of 3 rooms with two sets of bunks in each, plus a small living room and a bathroom.  In the end, we had 24 people.

The busy little bar owner rushed about to find mattresses.  The ever courteous, extraordinarily kind, Spaniards, had another glass of wine, laughed, and offered to double up.  In the end there was not an inch of spare space anywhere on the floor, and leaving in the morning meant tiptoeing over prostrate bodies and sliding out of a crack in the door.  Most amusing.

It was a situation that hasn’t been repeated, though, and there has been no pressure for a bed since.  A South African guy who I met just after Merida has been volunteering as the hospitalero at the albergue up here in Salamanca, and he says the route has been reasonably quiet.

The group I was walking with have moved on; some are continuing to Santiago, some stopping here, or up the road in Zamora.  For me I’ve done over 700km since leaving Salobrena, and now is a good time to stop and get some of it down on paper before it goes out of my head.  I am much better at stopping than I used to be, and I enjoy my breaks much more.  In this case there is a double advantage – I have to say that nothing says ‘stay put’ like bucketing rain and freezing wind.  The first thing I did on arriving in Salamanca was buy another layer.  Man – it is COLD.

The route from here is steep and interesting by all accounts, through the mountains into Galicia.  It is a different one to the route I walked last time, so I’m looking forward to it – even the hills.  Coming here the views were so beautiful across the rises – particularly at dawn – that they quite literally took my breath away.  I found myself stopping often to photograph the sun rising over dew covered fields, mist hanging in the valleys below as on distant peaks a first ray caught the snow, turning it fiery red.  Daybreak on this walk has been one of the most beautiful and inspiring things of every day, and I rush to leave the albergue every morning just so I can walk into it.  Fortunately it seems everyone else has been running on the same routine, so I don’t feel as if I am disrupting anyone – in fact there is usually someone up and about before me.  Given the communal nature of sleeping arrangements, this is a relief, as I hate the thought of disrupting people with a more relaxed schedule.

This is a fairly brief update for a reasonably long stretch, but to be honest I want to use my day to write other things, so brief it is.  I’m not sure where the next stop will be – but there are only 17 walking days to Santiago, so either way you’ll hear from me soon.

Happy trails.

Palm Sunday began in Caceres under a slate grey sky, with men dressed as Roman centurions before midday this morning.  It is nearly ten at night, and I have just left the procession still winding through Caceres’ ancient laneways, drums beating and penitents hauling their crosses.

Semana Santa – Holy Week – is a big deal in Spain, and Palm Sunday is one of the first official celebrations.  For months now the brass bands have been practicing, the sound of solemn drum beats thumping through the streets of wherever I have been late into the night.  A Spaniard once told me they rest for the week after Easter, then begin practicing again.

I’m very fortunate to be in Caceres, one of the more picturesque old Roman towns, and one known for its Semana Santa celebrations.  I’d planned on walking again today, but when I realised what was happening, had no desire to leave – and I’m very glad I didn’t.

The processions are elaborate and full of religious significance.  From the tradition of hoods on penitents – in bygone years, to protect their identity whilst allowing them to repent – to the figures of Christ and his donkey, and the Virgin, carried loftily through the streets – the procession is solemn and ritual filled.  Here most of the participants seemed to be adolescents, drawn probably from local schools.  There were even robed contingents from the youngest ages, all marching solemnly and hiding grins from their friends on the sidelines.

The entire city turned out to watch, and are still celebrating as I write this.  Through the window the melancholy trumpets wail, and drums thump steadily, as the procession continues through the alleys of the ancient walled city.

Today marked the beginning of Semana Santa, and I’m hoping to be somewhere I can watch further processions as the week progresses – although sadly I don’t think I’ll make it to Salamanca in time, which I’d hoped to.  But today was a special treat for me, and one I won’t forget.

Not every town has participants dressed as Romans – that is particular to this very Roman part of Spain.  As I walked here I passed several beautiful bridges of Roman construction, and followed for the most part an old Roman way.  Extrememdura has plunged me right into the rich era of Roman Hispania, and today for me capped it off.  I’ll leave you with a few

roman bridge

images.

Roman theatre

In 1975, Merida celebrated an anniversary – a 2000 year anniversary – of the city’s official foundation by order of the Emperor Augustus.  For someone who grew up in a country that acknowledged 200 years of European inhabitation during my own lifetime, it is something of a treat to wander beneath Roman archways, and amongst ancient buildings, that were established two millennia ago.

Merida is an historical treasure trove.  As I was walking here, reading the background to the area had me increasingly excited, and the reality has far surpassed my expectations.

Which is a good thing, because I confess that as the Extremaduran landscape flattened out along this stretch, so a little, did I.  The walk had entered farming country.  Rolling fields of jewel green cereal crops; pale fields where sheep graze beneath holm oaks; the odd creek crossing.  The small villages were sleepy and lost to time, places where old men pass the day on a sunny bench, and the inevitable storks nest in church steeples.

I remember the storks from last time I walked through Spain.  It is funny to look up and see their nests at the top of every church.

The walking was relatively easy, although there were a few more days on tarmac than I would have liked.  Still, I wondered why I was feeling so low; after all, I have a warm bed every night, wonderful cheap food, and arrows to follow.  Surely I should be in heaven?

As I was walking one of the more isolated days, along a peaceful dirt track through farmland, it hit me.

Some places in the world are just magical.  One can describe all the reasons why, but ultimately it is a subjective connection to a certain kind of landscape that makes one person love it, and another to feel indifferent.  The rugged peaks of Andalucia, and the incandescent brilliance of the light that floods them, enlivened me.  It made me feel excited and entranced, fascinated by every step.

Crossing the Sierra Morena into Extremadura left behind that magic.  The light is somehow duller, the surroundings more dun coloured.  Whilst the walking is easier, it lacks the dramatic brilliance of the stretch from the coast to Cordoba.  In some ways, it is just a plod.

Interestingly, as soon as I worked that out, I began to feel excited again.  Sometimes it just takes understanding the impact of surroundings to begin to appreciate them.  In this case the real treat of the stretch was walking between  two capitals of Roman Hispania – Cordoba, the capital of Baetica – which roughly equates to modern Andalucia – and Merida, known then as Augusta Emerita, the capital of then Lusitania.  It is easy to see the traces of Roman occupation, from the lookout fortresses cresting mountains such as that in the small village of Magacela, to crumbling ruins in fields along the way.  Amongst the large granite boulders that litter the hillsides here, there are also the remains of much older civilisations, dating back to the legendary time of Tartessos – curious round stone huts, and dolmens.  It did strike me that the area outside Campanario where some of the archeological excavations on these sites are ongoing, is extremely similar geographically to sites of a commensurate age inWiltshire, England.

Even many of the modern day dwellings seem at times to belong to a much earlier era – which many of them do, of course.  More than once I walked by a crumbling, low roofed stone building assuming it was deserted, only to see a bowlegged, beret clad old farmer wander out of the barn, walking stick in hand, whistling to his sheep.  It seemed a life out of time, down to the old fashioned posters advertising upcoming bullfights.

I stop to talk to a lot of the old men, who lean on their fences and squint at me in curiosity, eager to have a chat with one of the strange people they see walking across their land.  I’ve learned to keep my distance during these exchanges, as they’re not in the least shy about asking for a kiss out of the blue.  They are gorgeous, though, and we always have a good laugh.  They take my decline of their invitation in good humour and always ask if I need to fill my water bottles.  I’d been told that cortijo owners through here aren’t very pilgrim friendly, but I’ve found it to be totally the opposite – I’ve met nothing but kind welcome.

I’ve also found that the villagers now seem to be more aware of the camino Mozarabe.  There are obviously a lot more people walking the route – one barman told me that this time of year he gets one or two most days.  For my part I’ve met only three other pilgrims, and none on a consistent basis.  There are an Australian couple who left Granada the same day I did, and who I imagine I will catch up with at some point; and a German guy who I knocked into once or twice in villages, who is finishing at Merida.  I believe that after this stop, with the beginning of the Albergues, that I will come across more, but it has been a solitary ramble to this point.

Not something that I mind – at all, actually.  I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the luxury of my own thoughts during a peaceful dawn, and having a room to myself at night.  Not sure how I will go with communal camino life – it has been a while since I’ve shared my walking and living space, so it should make for an interesting transition!

By the time I walked into Merida I was thoroughly captivated by the history of the city – not least because some of the best Roman ruins in Europe are to be found here, not to mention the extraordinary museum of Roman Art.  I planned to take at least one day to explore, and got here by ten yesterday with the idea that I would rest for half a day, and explare today.  But I was so excited I wound up gorging myself on history yesterday, and covered nearly all the monuments on arrival, although I’ve still much to see today, as soon as I finish writing this.  Most exciting for me is the

Visigothic museum

splendid Visigothic remnants here – including the best collection of Visigothic art in Spain, housed in an old church.  Today I’m also going to visit Mithraeum House, originally thought to be one of the old temples to the cult of Mithras that were found all over the Roman Empire. It’s now considered instead to be the dwelling of a noble family, complete with baths, interior garden, and subterranean bedrooms for the summer.  It was the existence of these underground rooms that gave rise to the original theory, since most Mithraic temples were subterranean, or had rooms below ground.  I’ve always been intrigued by the cult, the rituals of which are still obscure.  The museum of roman art here had some extraordinary artefacts from the cult of Mithras, including one of the lion headed figure entwined by a serpent.  Whilst there are many theories as to the signifiicance and origin of this figure in the Mithraic mysteries, it is widely thought that it represents a god of time and seasonal change.  I found it an arresting image.

The Roman theatre here is one of the best preserved of its kind, and very impressive.  Sitting up in the terraces and looking down at the blue marble corinthium columns, interspersed with toga clad sculptures, it is easy to imagine it packed to capacity, 5,500 people listening to the latest play of political propaganda, an entire melting pot of power and intrigue taking place as the performance wore on.  The remains of a temple to the imperial cult are behind the theatre, and next door is the rather less formal ampitheatre, where one imagines the common man watched fights between men and beasts whilst the elite planned the running of the empire.

The first time I went to Rome, I felt overwhelmed by the treasures on every corner.  Merida has a similar effect.  It is easy to forget that you are in a modern city, particularly when you look out across the extraordinary bridge spanning the Guadiana river, and imagine Roman legions marching across it.  I’m spending today poking into every corner I can find, and I may even stay another one.  I still want to take a bus to Badajoz for a look at the site of one of the bloodiest battles in the Napoleonic era, and if I run out of time today I will do that tomorrow.

I read a piece of advice from an older pilgrim recently, advising people to ‘slow down’ as they walk the route.  I confess I re-read that a few times, and I am very much trying to put it into practice, especially when it comes to making sure I see all the things I want to along the way.  I am so accustomed to walking to strict deadlines, and forcing myself to cover distances quickly, that it is a real act of will to slow myself down.  I admit that I like to get the walking done as quickly as possible – that is just personal preference, I don’t enjoy dragging

Forum, (incorrectly) known as the temple of Diana

my day out – but I do need to make sure I stop in the places that interest me.  I was feeling rather guilty for taking time off, then I thought – why on earth should I?  This is exactly why I’m walking this route – because the history fascinates me, and I’m writing a book that pertains to it – so for goodness sake, enjoy it.

Others have written far more instructive blogs regarding the actual route and logistics, so I can’t add much, other than to say the way marking is easy and information abounds on this route.  It is a simple enough stretch to walk, although there are a few long days, and as I said – rather a lot of tarmac, not something I enjoy.  I also think the day will come when some forward thinking local bureaucrat will prohibit the passage of pilgrims on the hard shoulder of narrow roads, and they will be completely right.  It is  recipe for disaster.  I’ve chosen to walk in ditches where at all possible in these situations – I’ve no faith in the attention of drivers doing over 100km an hour on a busy road.  Years ago when I walked through Europe I never minded this kind of thing, but I really hate it now, and will do what I can to avoid it.  Even though it is only ever a couple of kilometres here or there, they often involve going up and over bridges with traffic barriers at the edge, meaning you couldn’t leap out of the way even if you needed to.  Not good.

So there is only 770km to go until Santiago, and I plan on enjoying every step of them.  The weather has really warmed up the last few days, which I’m also enjoying, and there is a wealth of historical landmarks on the coming route, so all my boxes are ticked.  I apologise for the lack of updates – when I go flat, so does my writing, and I didn’t want to bore you.

Cheers.

A lovely short day before the rather longer 38k one tomorrow.  The landscape really is noticeably different now, full of scraggy holm oak and rocky scrub.  It is so similar to the mountainous regions of southern Australia that often I feel as if I’m at home again, walking up in the hills near my home town.  For anyone from Mansfield reading this, it looks a lot like the area from Barwite up to Tolmie, or the road from Kevington through to Woods Point.

(The villages feel a little the same as well. I’ve been writing in this bar for the last hour and not a soul have I seen).

It has a beauty of its own, but not one that I find intriguing in the same way I did Granada and Jaen provinces.  Southern Andaucia has an incandescent light that is utterly unique.  Here the sky remains blue and the sun shining, but it lacks the hard brilliance.  There is also a lot less heat in the sunlight, and beneath the sunny day there is a distinct chill in the breeze.  The ground here is more damp, despite the drought, and there is a lot more vegetation.  As a result it is hard not to feel the cold as soon as you stop walking – so I don’t.

It is definite fleece weather in the mornings, although midday is perfect walking weather.

The way marking is really good now.  It is almost overkill – there’s a little yellow arrow everywhere I look.  I’ve often been amazed that local jokers don’t mess with the arrows, just to confuse the tourists – I’ve no doubt they wouldn’t last a week in Australia before someone decided to paint them in all directions – but somebody in this town obviously had the same idea, if this bit of rather good graffiti is anything to go by.  It gave me a laugh, anyway.

And today…

Am tucked up under several blankets as I write this – because its cold out there, people; very cold. Although, I am seriously thankful to report, nowhere near as cold as down in Jaen – where it dumped 15cm of snow this morning.

Anyway, I should be grateful really.  So chilly was the high Sierra Morena breeze when I left Villaharta before 7am this morning that I verily scurried my way through scrub and holm oak path, reaching the rather windswept and desolate village of Alcaracejos by 2pm.  The 38km stretch was one of the more unlovely I’ve walked thus far, although that could have been influenced by the whistling winds that knocked me sideways all day.  Wind is an unpleasant thing to walk in for any long duration, and today it got seriously boring, especially after I hit the flat cereal plateaus before town.

But it is also that for me this stretch is terribly reminiscent of the country I come from.  At any point today I could have simply been doing a walk up Mt Timbertop, or through any of the southern ranges of Victoria.  At times it is uncanny how similar the terrain is, down to the smells, and today was one of those days.  The sheep looked the same, the bush smelled the same, and the sky was identical to that at home.  This should all possibly make me feel very nostalgic and homesick, but I haven’t been away long enough to get sentimental, so instead it was just a little boring.

I do love the holm oak trees, though.  They are different, and not something I remember seeing before walking through here.  They have a gnarled, kind of tough character that appeals to me.  They sure need to be pretty hardy to survive the winds that were whipping through here today.

I was always a little braced for this next couple of hundred kilometres.  I know its a relatively barren stretch, and for me it lacks a little in the historical markers that so interest me.  But on the other side it gives plenty of time to think.  I guess that is a good thing….

I will say that the more barren the landscape becomes, the better (and cheaper) the food gets.  Being served a lush salad, roasted eggplant moussaka, grilled salmon, and creme caramel dessert, along with a delicious white wine, all for 8 euros, is enough to brace me against the strongest winds.

And I have to say this – I am constantly amazed and delighted by the kindness and generosity of Spaniards in relation to pilgrims along this route.  I would have thought the whole pilgrim thing would have worn a little thin by now, and perhaps be seen more as something to take advantage of.  But instead, in every village, I am offered a massive discount on accommodation – honestly, it is embarassing sometimes.  My food is ridiculously cheap, and everyone can’t do enough to help.  I feel absurdly touched and often quite embarassed at how generous people are with their resources.  The days of real pilgrimages may be long gone, but it seems that for the humorous, genial people of rural Spain, anyone who puts on a pack and boots is to be treated with generosity and compassion.

For someone who has spent a lot of time walking in countries where people couldn’t care less how far I’ve come, and are often less than welcoming, it is an extraordinary privilege and pleasure to walk somewhere so well resourced, and generous of spirit.  And if I occasionally feel  little self conscious (“Oh my goodness!  You’re walking alone?  But you’re so brave, it is so hard….”

“No, really, there are little yellow arrows everywhere and it is actually really lovely…oh, ok, then, go on, take care of me with a lovely glass of wine and good food…”) – well, why mess with people who genuinely want to be kind?  In Spain, it seems to me, kindness is a natural instinct.  It has to be one of the most courteous countries I’ve ever been in.

Sure, today may have been a little windier, chillier, and longer than desired; but who the hell cares, when at the end of it is a wonderfully warm, cheap bed, an amazing feed, and the kindness of strangers?

I absolutely love this country.

Mezquita

I’m sitting in the sun in Cerro Muriano, a small village not far from Cordoba. I got here very early today, as it’s only a few hours hike from the city. Although it was possible to walk further, it would have meant a 36km day – and I’m not in the kind of hurry that means I have to do those distances by choice. I may have been debating with myself until I saw the accommodation – a glorious little apartment with internet access and a wonderful sunny bar/restaurant downstairs, all for such a low price it seemed ludicrous in the extreme to carry on. In fact, had I known how good it was, I would have stayed here and bussed back to Cordoba the last couple of days rather than stay in the city. But then perhaps I never would have found my way into really loving the city itself.

And that would have been a pity.

Cordoba did not immediately enchant me. Far from it, in fact. On my first morning I hurried into the Mezquita, waiting to be charmed by a city that has intrigued me for years – and left feeling cold, and somewhat unmoved. Perhaps it is all the time living in such close proximity to the wondrous Alhambra, but I felt sadly let down on that first morning.

Admittedly, my impressions of Cordoba have always been hazy, influenced by historical fiction referencing its golden years at the centre of the Al Andalus caliphate, when it was hailed as a centre of learning for cultures from across the globe. Cordoba in my mind was a tranquil place of courtyards and fountains, pomegranates and nightingales, where Jewish scholars debated theology with their Arabic and Christian counterparts, and every day a new theory of astronomy or mathematics was born. When I was younger it seemed incredible to me that at the time Anglo Saxons lived in chilly, mouldering castles, throwing their excrement over the walls, in Cordoba existed sophisticated homes with proper irrigation, and universities where people came from all over the world to study. For many years I lived with the delusion that this was all down to the sophistication of the Arabs of the time, until later study brought home the realisation of the complexity of Andalucian society during their reign – the unique combination of cultural elements that made such an environment possible.

The day after my initial, disappointing foray into the Mezquita, I wandered off to discover the rest of the city. If there is one thing I know, it’s never to judge a city on the first day – nor on its iconic monuments.

And, oh – the treasures I found. The Archeological Museum was my first treat, and one not to be missed for anyone with even a passing interest in the cultural layers of the Iberian peninsular. From tiny carved statuettes left as votive

Yes - the one on the left IS a penis - not sure if they were praying for fertility or help to get it up.

offerings by ancient Iberian tribes, to extraordinary Roman sculptures and Visigothic bas-reliefs – the museum is a treasure trove. I wandered between the enormous amphorae used to transport wine and olive oil throughout the Roman empire, and intricate ceramic bowls common in households centuries before the Romans even arrived. Seeing overlays of how the city was laid out during each era gave me a whole new perspective on the streets I walked.

I left feeling a new enthusiasm. Having spent some time wandering through the narrow winding streets of the Juderia, Cordoba’s old city, the previous day, I was a bit fed up with endless tourist shops selling gimmicks and jewellery. But newly encouraged, I set of for the plaza of Meimonedes, and the ruins of the 15th century synagogue.

Wow.

Everything I hadn’t felt in the austere, imposing surrounds of the Mezquita, I did in the intimate ruins of the synagogue. From the crumbling remains of delicate stucco high on the walls echoed the sophistication and beauty of Al Andalus, and I saw the same reverence for nature and learning that characterises the design of the Alhambra. Where the Mezquita felt more like a bold statement of ego and intellect, the synagogue felt, as does the Alhambra, like a prayer in motion. The museum next door, tracing the history of the Sephardic Jews, was perhaps the most interesting of its genre I’ve ever had the privilege of visiting. The Sephardic Jewish tradition for me is the quiet underpinning of Andalucian society from Roman times to the Inquisition. Music, architecture, food, customs, dress, and agricultural practices have all been shaped by the Jewish people who lived here, and from the extended Jewish diaspora across Northern Africa, Persia, and Asia with whom they traded. If it is the Arabs who claim the glory for the sophisticated society that was Al Andalus, it was the Jewish community who provided both the basis for that glory, and the golden thread that kept it alive so long.

The museum shows that in a series of beautiful displays, and wonderful information boards. In conjunction with the synagogue itself I found it one of the most moving and intriguing sites I’ve visited.

Feeling buoyed by goodwill, I went on to the Casa Andalusi, a museum I hadn’t planned on visiting. I’d read the description and pretty much dismissed it as a hodge podge tourist trap of Andalucian stereotypes. But I was pleasantly surprised to find it managed to condense the important elements of Andalucia into a really fascinating series of rooms – and even better, had an entire basement filled not only with Roman and Visigothic artefacts, but also the remains of a Roman floor mosaic.

I left the museums feeling a whole new sense of wonder for Cordoba. Yes, the Mezquita leaves me a little cold – even a second visit that evening didn’t change my opinion. Perhaps the original mosque was glorious, and it was the tampering by Christian monarchs that lessened its impact. But there is something about the architectural layout that simply doesn’t move me; even the Arabic parts. If the Alhambra is a celebration of life, a series of sensual curves and lines that create beauty and harmony, the Mezquita feels like a cold and haughty display of power. Its symmetrical arches and marble floors feel proud and imposing, rather than soothing. With the added grimace of Christian iconoclasty, Christ crying down in a series of gaudy baroque carvings completely out of place with the more subdued intricacy of the Arabic surrounds, the overall effect for me was gloomy and jarring. I can appreciate the artistry and politics that make the Mezquita. I just can’t rid myself of disgust at the pretentious warring of two such patriarchal religions that, for me, has resulted in an ostentatious display of power.

For me by far the most fascinating part of wandering through the vast complex were the corners dedicated to the Roman and Visigothic structures that pre-dated the current edifice, and were dug up during recent excavations. Yes, this is the period of history I’m interested in, I realise – but amidst the glitz and glam they also seemed touchingly simple, and somehow more evocative.

I left and went looking for an internet cafe, then found a sign pointing toward Arabic baths. Now – I went to the Arabic baths in Granada, and was a little underwhelmed. I’d already worked out that Cordoba had a franchise of the same operation, and wasn’t interested in visiting – but this sign had a different logo, and looked appealing somehow.

I wandered around the alleyways until I found myself in their reception. After a long talk with the very genial girl on reception, I found myself booking in for a series of baths and a massage – mainly because after I explained I was a writer, and interested in a having a look around, she offered me a deal so cheap it felt churlish to refuse.

Oh, wow. And how glad am I that I didn’t? If you are ever in Cordoba – go. Just go. The Hospederia de Banos Arabes. Go and dip between a steam room and hot, cold, medium, and flotation pools. Do all of it in beautiful surroundings, then have a seriously good massage with the sound of water trickling all around you. And I may have got it at the kind of discount that costs a whole lot less than filling your car with petrol, but even at full price it comes in at well under eighty bucks Australian, including a full hour massage. I’m not sure why it was so much better than the ‘Hammam’ baths in Granada (and Cordoba – the franchise) – but it was, and the most serenely luxurious treat I’ve had in a very long time. If you are a pilgrim and you stop in Cordoba – go and do it. It will wash away every one of the Andalucian hills.

I left Cordoba this morning feeling as if I’d found my way into the city I’d loved from afar, and very glad I hadn’t left the previous day, as I’d been tempted to. Instead I walked up the shady paths of the Sierra Morena through stands of holm oak and flowering bushes and looked back at the city with a sense of real satisfaction, and affection. There is so much I’ve still to discover about Cordoba – I hope to go back many times for research, and to find all the corners I didn’t this time – but in the meantime, I feel content that I’ve at least seen a glimpse of its extraordinary history.

I felt a pang of sadness today, too, as I walked up out of that last true part of geographical Andalucia, and into the Sierra Morena. It feels different already – more fertile, gentler. I have no photos of today’s walk. I’ll take plenty more in the days to come, but I felt curiously flat walking up here, sad to be leaving the rugged peaks and craggy defiles of the south. I’m sure there is so much beauty yet to come, but I wonder if any of it can compete in my heart with the harsh, breathtaking vistas I’ve just passed.

Prepared for hard terrain, when I had a closer look it is pretty easy going for a while, at least in terms of physical geography. There are some long distances but not so many sharp rises.

Which I guess means that I can have another glass of wine while I plan my route.

Cheers.

So Cordoba made a fine first impression.  Which it would want to, given that I walked forty km today to get to it.  It isn’t strictly necessary to do the lot in one hit from Castro del Rio – one can detour to Santa Cruz, and continue the next day.  But when I got to the crossroad and had to choose whether to divert left, or continue on, it was only ten thirty this morning.  A light breeze blew; the walking was simple; and the waymarks clear.  It was a good day for a walk, and to be honest, I actually enjoyed it.

I wrote the following, however, last night – after a day when the lack of yellow arrows was wearing a little thin.  In order to excuse the forthcoming language, I must add that the two days prior to this one were by far the worst marked of the whole Camino Mozarabe so far.  I am not seriously bothered by this, and hats go off to all those wonderful volunteer souls who give up their time and energy to venture into the countryside and paint little yellow arrows.  You do a wonderful service, and I for one don’t expect the route to be infallible.  So please accept that peace offering befor you read the following….:

(YESTERDAY)

I was thinking today about how many things have changed with walking, for me.  I lost the yellow arrows about ten km out of Baena.  I’m fairly sure they’d have been there had I looked, but I didn’t, not too hard, anyway.  Instead I continued in the same direction I’ve been walking the last few days, crested a hill, took a landmark, and cut across country.  I actually arrived at my destination (in this case, Castro del Rio) before my estimated arrival time, so I must have got it fairly right.

Yes, it involves a bit of scrambling occasionally, and probably more soft earth walking than the oft treaded Camino.  But on the upside, I get to wander

wildflowers - the pay-off for cross country-ing

through scented meadows of knee high wildflowers, and to actually engage with my walk, rather than mindlessly following yellow arrows.

Because here is the thing.  I chose this walk precisely because it is mindless.  Because I wanted to follow little yellow arrows, and not have to think, or be responsible.

But I’ve walked so far and in so many places where my life depended on me being aware of, and in control of, my own navigation, that I find it not only disempowering to switch off – but slightly boring, too.

I don’t mind being lost if I have miscalculated on a map, or misread the terrain.  I can live with that – it’s my mistake.

But when my time is wasted because the little yellow arrows have been moved, or bulldozed away, or simply washed off from the rain; when I find myself in the middle of an olive grove with no reference point other than my own instincts – then, sadly, I get a little annoyed at having to rely on someone else’s navigation and care.

Yes – hello, Paula the control freak.

So I took a little decision today, one that has been coming for some time.  I’m no longer scouting around for the arrows.  If I can’t immediately see one – sod it, I am cross country.  I’ve done it quite a bit the last few days, always with a slight twinge of guilt, as if I should just have a little more patience.

But you know what?  I’ve walked a really long way, and I don’t have a lot of patience.  If I’m walking, then I like my kilometres to count for something.  I save my rambling for when I get to an interesting place – nice and early, because I like to get my kilometres out fast – and have time to go and sight see all the things I find fascinating.  Because frankly, sniffing around in another olive grove looking for a little yellow arrow that might or might not point me in the right direction, is not a past time I find fascinating at all.

I’ve no doubt that all of this is entirely apposite to the spirit of the camino and general pilgrim philosophy.  The lesson undoubtedly is one of trust, faith, and surrender to circumstances.  Or conversely, to research meticulously, and know without any doubt exactly where the route lies.  But – to rather misquote a far over used term amongst the pilgrim confraternity – it’s my f%$king camino.  And I’ll navigate if I want to.

(BACK TO PRESENT)

Does this remind anyone else of the microsoft wallpaper of a few years back??

And at the end of that little rant, may I say that the route to Cordoba was a marked contrast, if you will excuse the pun.  Clearly marked, and easy to walk.  The land has changed – a lot more grain fields than olive groves.  In places it looked a little moonscape-ish, with all the ploughed fields

A bit moonscape-y

under a pale sky.

One of the nicest parts of the day was walking out of Castro del Rio in the dawn, and watching the light change over the dramatic mountains behind me.  Beautiful.

Accommodation: I stayed in Bar Antonio in Castro del Rio.  Cheap,

sunrise

clean, but you have to go up the road for food.  All good.  In Cordoba I will be moving around a bit, as it is hard to get accommodation at the moment due to a music festival, and I want to stay more than a day.

Will update tomorrow with proper pics of Cordoba.

coming over the Roman bridge toward the Mezquita, on arrival

That is an impressive resume by any standards.  I actually spent last night engrossed in the tourism literature I found in the town of Alcaudete, where I was staying.  It was some of the better written material I’ve found tourism wise.  It also has me convinced that I must come back to Jaén  for an extended tour, so it’s obviously effective.

This is the thing – there is just so muchof everything, along this route.  For much of the Via Mozarabe (the name for the leg between Granada and Córdoba), the Way follows the Ruta Caliphates – the Route of the Caliphate.  It is easy to see why, when every hilltop has its own watchtower or mini fortress, and each town a memorable one.  It puts me in mind of Pippin the Hobbit, in

from the castle at Alcaudete

Lord of the Rings, when he sets the tower ablaze in Gondor, and it strikes off a long line of blazes across the mountains.  (I think it was Pippin.  One of the gay hobbits, anyway…).

Tolkien could have been referring to ancient Spain when he wrote that.  On every crest here one can stand and look back at a series of peaks, all crowned with their own watchtower, and imagine horsemen thundering between them, first to warn the Romans of the Carthaginian approaches – or vice versa – then the Romans of the Visigoths, then the Moors – and so on until Alcala la Real saw the Catholic monarchs sally forward from that town’s citadel to receive the keys to Granada upon the final surrender of Boabdil, as the Spanish call him.

Of all the civilisations who nurtured the fertile plains around the Guadalquivir, the Moors are perhaps the most famous, not least because they created such works of architectural beauty, and such intricate systems of irrigation.  The ‘Route of the Caliphate’ may be a slightly ambitious term, but it is hard to ignore the Moorish heritage in every whitewashed village, and the sense of walking between one ancient hive of production and another.

In between the watchtowers are the other phenomenon for which Jaen is justly famous – olive groves.

This isn’t a walk to do if olives bore you, by the way.  That is pretty much all one walks amongst for days on end.  But it would take a lot to make me tired of olive groves, with their silvery grey leaves dancing in the breeze, and lovely shady branches to rest amongst.  Occasionally one comes across a lone cortijo, or the ruins of one, and I imagine how blissfully peaceful it must be to live amongst the rippling silver sea surrounding it.

Even better, the olive oil in each town is exquisite.  Yesterday as part of my menu del dia (princely sum of 8 euros for three courses, wine and coffee….God I love this country) I asked if I could try some of the different oils.  The very hospitable host of my hostel happily brought me four different ones, all of which were superb in their own way.  There is an olive oil route through Jaen as well.  It is on my ‘to do’ list.

The walk to Alcaudete was incredibly lovely, and very easy going.  The Way was clearly marked for the most part, and it fairly much just wove in and out of olive groves all day – with a perfectly placed village in the middle for a coffee.

But I admit that today, between Alcaudete and Baena, I managed to lose the markings well and truly.

I’m pretty sure this was down to my own absent mindedness – I was busy staring at a watchtower in the distance that looked really interesting.  Luckily it was, because I wound up visiting it.

I lost the markers about 14 km out of Alcaudete, and I genuinely have no idea if there was a clear route marked from then on or not.  I would think there was,

hilltop ruins

it’s just that a kilometre or so after I’d gone wrong, I realised I could detour to the little town of Lucque, and check out the rather interesting looking ruins, and that it would only add a few kilometres.  So I did, and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

It is one of the advantages of carrying a map along this stretch, and I’d strongly advise doing so, in case either your guide book totally fails you, or there is something interesting on the side worth visiting.  In my case today there was a purpose built walking track the whole way from Lucque to Baena, so in the end I barely lost time at all – it’s apparently a 27km stretch on the camino, I would reckon I made it thirty, and I was still here by one o’clock, so it really matters very little.  It was however the first time I would say I thought the markings were less than clear – although as I said, I really wasn’t paying a lot of attention.  I also don’t carry a guide book, so if there were some in depth instructions lurking somewhere in one of them, I don’t have them.  I decided to rely on the net, a map, and my own sense of direction until Merida (and probably beyond) – partly because I really hate the thought of consulting a book every five minutes.  It’s worked for me so far, and if I go wrong every now and then, I figure it’s a small price to pay for being able to enjoy my surroundings undisturbed by something telling me to ‘go R at the big rock with a lump on it’.  Or something like that.

It is bliss walking into the dawn here.  It comes up over the olive groves in soft purple hues, casting a faint pearly sheen across the rolling fields.  The mountains ripple away in a haze of dramatic blue peaks in the distance, and the earth smells damp and rich.  Even when the first rays dispel the soft light, this early in Spring the sunshine is still benign and warming until the early afternoon, when for a couple of hours it feels stronger.  But the dawn itself is worth waking up for, and walking into – I highly recommend it if you do this route.

Hopefully I will get this posted this afternoon – but right now it is time for my lunch.  By the way – hostels – I stayed in Hostel Spa Ruena in Alcaudete – 20 euros and very pilgrim friendly with great food.  I’m staying in Pension Las Claveles here in Baena – also 20, and good so far.

Cheers.

Sun rising as I was walking out of Moclin

Wow.  Inadequate though the word is, it’s also the only one I can think of in my current, totally knackered, state, to describe the magnificent walk from Granada to Alcala la Real, where this post  comes from.

Prior to this though was the equally sublime traverse from Durcal up over the Sierra Nevada range, into Granada.  It is the highest point I will cross before reaching Santiago, and it was a truly lovely walk along a

The mountain pass on the way from Durcal to Granada

peaceful mountain track.  I would never have found it had I not had the kind assistance of a local Friend of the Camino who lives in Durcal, Amancio.  He met me, gave me a detailed map and instructions – and incredibly kindly, also gave me a scallop shell to wear on my pack.  I’d been thinking about getting one but it had all seemed a bit hard before leaving.  I was so touched by his kindness, and the sense that my walk was really getting underway, that I confess to shedding a few tears as I walked off.

nice little mountain path

After crossing the mountain pass I eventually reached the suburban outskirts of Granada.  When I passed the house of former students of mine, where I used to walk to quite frequently in the Zaidin, I decided I could take a bus back to my flat.  I can’t count the amount of times I’ve walked that bit of unlovely concrete and I saw no reason to flagellate myself again.

I had a blissful day off in Granada, catching up with friends and generally feeling healthy and happy (until I caught up with my friends, after which, obviously, I felt somewhat hungover and not remotely healthy…although still wonderfully happy!).

I did make one rather fatal mistake in Granada, however (apart from the excess wine).  I’m sure that it will provide many people with unmitigated amusement to find that I – after all the years I’ve walked – fell into my old trap of loading my backpack too much.

It was a simple enough thing – I’d been a little cold a couple of times on the way up, so in went another layer.  Then a couple of other things I thought I ‘might’ like or need.  After all, my pack had been so blissfully light as I bounced up from Salborena that a couple of kilos more wouldn’t make any difference, now – would it?

Oh, Paula, you total imbecile.  I was not more than five kilometres on my way out of Granada the next day than I was cursing myself for my stupidity, and failing to enjoy one step of the walk.  Perhaps it is all the years walking without a pack, or the year when I carried one that was far too heavy for me – but my body now won’t have a bar of a heavy pack.  I had planned to walk to Los Olivares, but in the end, I got as far as Pinos Puente, and decided – to hell with this, I’m taking the bus back to Granada, unloading things I don’t need, and staying the night.

Which was the right decision on a number of levels.

Firstly, I was so brutal with my pack that I left with less that I had from Salobrena.  But I really don’t need much at all, and if I do, I will make do.  Anything but a heavy pack.  It felt infinitely easier.

But secondly – and a note to any who are considering the route from Granada – I would honestly split the first stage in two anyway.  Firstly, the two walks are completely different.  Granada to Pinos Puente is a pretty boring trudge through semi industrial areas, and suburbs.  There is a nice long part where one is in neither, but it was a fairly forgettable stage in my opinion.

But from Pinos Puente to Moclin, (and please forgive my lack of accents in correct places – it is just hard work shifting back and forwards from my Spanish keyboard to the English one) the Way is extraordinary.

Dramatic.  Breathtaking.  And every superlative in between.

Moclin is the village up the top on the right. Los Olivares is the one in the valley. You get the picture.

Yes, it is endlessly uphill – the only time you aren’t going up, is when you are going equally steeply down.  And the last couple of kilometres uphill to Moclin are enough to send you weeping to the physio.  But the route is so divinely peaceful, and mesmerizingly beautiful, that the pain really is worth it.

And this is another reason I suggest breaking that first stage into two.  Quite apart from the fact that if you don’t, it is a hell of a hard haul to inflict upon

peaceful ramble through olive groves

your body on the first day, I think that the second part after Pinos Puente deserves to be appreciated in full.  At first it is a lovely long ramble uphill through olive groves, with hills and crops tumbling away beneath, and nothing but birdsong and high blue sky overhead to break the silence.  I’d read that the waymarks were hard to follow here, but

much better marked than rumour has it.

obviously someone has put in a lot of work since, because they were very clear and easy to find.

The landscape became increasingly rugged, with craggy peaks of red rock jutting above blossoming almond trees.  High on a peak in the distance perched the tiny mountain hamlet of Moclin, where I had planned to go the next day.

But upon reaching Los Olivares, I discovered the only accommodation was up the hill.  This information is no doubt available – I’ve not researched accommodation very thoroughly, being happy to throw my sleeping bag

just in case you missed the first picture of the hill....

anywhere if need be.  However, knowing there was a lovely Casa Rural only a couple of K’s further on proved too tempting, so I staggered off up the hill.

And, boy, what a hill it is.  I confess my fitness is not the premium that it could be, but I’m not in terrible shape.  Even so, I had to stop on several occasions – and for the first time in many years, I felt a few blisters come up.  Oh me, oh my.  Just when I thought my blister days were over.

Horse perusing his kingdom

Halfway up a man sitting astride his horse gazed out at the incredible view before him, the abrupt drop into the ravine and mountains jutting high onto the horizon.  He told me that he’s been riding his horse up here since it was very young, and right from the start, the horse always wanted to stop at this particular lookout.  Now, he said, the horse bounces up eagerly and heads straight for this point, where he stands gazing out into the distance.  Sure enough, the horse was alert, head up and ears pricked, taking in the scene.  I thought he must feel as if he was king of the world up there.  When I stopped panting enough to take the picture, I certainly felt that way.

We both continued on our respective paths, the man on his horse at a considerably faster rate than the sweaty Australian bringing up the rear. Finally I emerged into Moclin and discovered that the first house at the end of the walking track was the much longed for Casa Rural.

And what a treat it was.

The owners take a kind view of pilgrims, and as such I found myself quickly ensconced in what were, by any standards, palacial quarters – for only twenty euros.  I soon had a crackling fire in the chimonea, a Spanish omelette cooking on the stove, and my gear laid out across a beautifully soft king sized bed, whilst I indulged myself in a long hot shower.

Like I said. AMAZING.  And infinitely better than my sleeping bag in a cave somewhere.

I confess, though, to feeling rather done in, and more aware of my muscles than I have been in a while.  It might have been a short stretch, but it is no laughing matter, and I stress again – do it in too stages.

Today I leapt out of bed and winced; sure could feel those muscles.  But the walk to Alcala la Real, just as the stretch before it, was magically beautiful – and with more of those great work out hills.  The waymarks are a little bit sparse in places, although not hard to work out.  Probably the worst marking was the last five kilometres into Alcala itself, although it is pretty obvious where to go given the dirty big road sign 100 metres in front of you.

It was a truly beautiful walk again today.  At times I cursed the (wonderful) Friends of the Camino who sent me up a seemingly endless hill amongst olive groves; then I sat and had an apple under them and inhaled the utter silence, and the extraordinary light of Andalucia, which glistens with an almost

Those hills are starting to show...

incandescent radiance, and I wondered why on earth one would choose any other path.

I confess that my body is complaining a little.  In addition, I made a change to my footwear, thinking that Birkenstocks wouldn’t be suited to the terrain.  That was a mistake – I can feel soreness in my feet that I never did while I wore my sandals, so I will be swapping over as soon as I get to Cordoba.  It is something of a harsh reminder that – for me at least – there is no comparison to the trusty companions that got me through the Sahara.  I’d rather have cold feet occasionally and have my beautiful sandals than warm ones and pain.

I can also say I cannot remember ever – EVER – enjoying a walk as much.

Hard as this country is, Andalucia is simply the most stunning part of the world

The castle at Moclin

I can imagine being able to walk through.  Every day brings a new fortress clinging to a mountain outpost, layered in history.  In the late afternoon yesterday pink almond blossom blew gently across my face, glinting in the golden sunlight.  Water trickles from mountain streams, and rocks glow ochre beneath a cerulean blue sky.  One is never too far from a village, and food and accommodation is cheap.

I am enjoying every step, and I will be very sad when I leave the province that has become my home, and move into the rest of Spain.  Andalucia has a magic and passion that live in the rocky hilltop villages, and deep in the russet soil of the endless olive groves.  I sometimes feel I could walk through here for years and never cease to be enchanted by its hidden valleys and high, whitewashed

looking down from my Moclin home for a night

houses.  At the moment I am savouring every day, and looking forward also to the delights of Cordoba – a city I’ve never had the privilege of visiting.

Meanwhile, thankyou for your emails and comments.  I can’t tell you how blissful it is to be walking again, and through such amazing country.  And if you are considering this route – do it.  The Via de la Plata is, so far, infinitely more beautiful than the Frances, for me.  And yes, it is a solitary route for this first part – but if, like me, you quite like your own company, then it is the perfect combination.

Til next time.