(Viana to Navarrete: 22.1 km in 7 1/2 hours; about 33,178 steps, plus another 2437 walking in the evening)

Jeremiah 7:1-11
v. 4 Do not trust in deceptive words and say, “This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord!”

We can look so good on the outside and back it up with things we say. “I go to church on Sunday.” “We just volunteered for a great cause.” “I’m walking to Santiago.” “Oh really?” says the Lord. “And what do you do with the rest of your time? Do you truly love your neighbor? Do you care for the poor? How do you spend the minutes when no one but me is watching? Do you worship me from your heart?” Carefully cultivated outward appearances and clever words don’t impress God, especially not when we pay him lip service then do as we please, flirting with the world’s polished plastic toys. Lord, help me to remember that you see everything I do. Help me to live with integrity.

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Breakfast at the hostel was to be available from 6 am. We were ready at 6:20 then spent ten minutes knocking, ringing and shivering at the hostel door across the street before the French gentleman, whose party we seem to be trailing, let us in. After we ate our toast we wasted time trying to get the inadequate internet to do something useful. Before we sent my pack today, Maurice offloaded some of his heavy items into it. I decided after three days of sandals to try my shoes again. The new left one still hurt my heel too much but the original left shoe was acceptable. We left at 7:40, me in mismatched shoes. The cloudless night had brought a chilly daybreak and I wore my gloves. As we wound our way through town men were already at work removing the rest of the heavy wooden fences from last week’s festivos.

Leaving Viana

On a little farm road a car slowed down and stopped. The elderly driver leaned over and rolled down the window; I hoped he didn’t want directions. “Peregrinos a Santiago?” he asked. Si, si. Well, we were on the wrong road; it was the next one over. We thanked him and started off across the stubbly field. My heel still hurt but maybe somewhat less. I wanted to lie down on the spot and go to sleep. “Blessed by your name when the road’s marked with suffering; when there’s pain in the offering, blessed by your name” (Matt Redman).

A large sign announced we were now in the province of La Rioja, its rich red soil showing in the path underfoot. Ripe blue grapes bulged in the hilly vineyards along the road while the big city of Logrono spread out below. When we got there we discovered decent wifi in the Pilgrim Information Center so I posted a ready blog entry. By the time we glanced around the old city and visited a church or two, the grocery store, an ATM and a pasteleria, we had putzed away at least an hour and a half, which was not good, because we had a long walk that day and this is not a sightseeing trip!

The path led through a linear park–nice, but it went on and on, finally leading to a reservoir, where we had a picnic lunch at a table under the trees. Near the servicios is where I dropped my camera. On cement. The lens housing is dented but it still seems to work; Maurice said maybe that’ll fix what ails it (as three mailings to a repair facility have been unable to do). The linear park continued around the reservoir then up an alto (what a surprise). The fence separating the path from the highway below was decorated with hundreds of twig and grass crosses, so Maurice added one more. Down we went again. Grapevines lined the path, and intersected the path, and ran in long diagonal rows away from the path. We continued through fields and more vineyards, along a cement canal system, across a bridge over the highway, past the ruin of a medieval pilgrim hostel, up steep steps and then up some more through the town of Navarrete, looking for the albergue where we had a double room waiting. Maurice stopped to consult the map on our leaflet once more. A man appeared, checked on what we were looking for, and walked us several streets to get there, ringing the bell for us at El Cantero and chatting with the owner who looked down from an upper window. It was a really nice room with purple walls, a TV (!) and balcony clotheslines in the sun. There wasn’t enough time to completely dry our clothes, though, so we hung our clothesline in our own private bathroom and left the vent fan on, which worked.

I needed more painkiller. The pharmacist didn’t recognize “acetominophen” but when she looked it up on her computer her face lit up and she knew just what we wanted: Paracetamol. She didn’t have any heel-shaped Compeed.

Evening in Navarrete

Our landlady had recommended El Molino for dinner; it didn’t open until eight but it was a nicer place than we usually frequent and had a quality pilgrim menu. I had a fine salad and Maurice had local beans with local sausage; for the second course I had paella and Maurice had veal, then finally we enjoyed bread pudding and cheesecake, all with bread, water, a bottle of wine and wifi, 20€ total. We sat at a nice table by the window in front of the bar. While we ate, a couple wheeled in a double stroller with twin grandchildren and played with the children while they had a glass of wine. I would never hang out at a bar in the US, but bars are different here. In Spanish bars I’ve learned you can order an omelet, or buy a cafe con leche and use their wifi for hours, or play with your grandchildren.