(Navarrete to Azofra: 23.1 km in 5 hours 50 minutes; 30,456 steps, plus 2200 walking in the evening)

Jeremiah 17:5-9, 13-14
v 7-8a, 14 But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. She will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream….Heal me, Lord, and I will be healed; save me and I will be saved, for you are the one I praise.

I still hurt but I am refreshed today. The kilometers went by quickly. The greetings of other pilgrims lifted me up. The prayers of friends at home have reached the Lord on my behalf. I will trust in God for my healing. I will trust in the Lord, the one who has saved me. He is the one I praise!

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Maurice said enough with rearranging the heavy things–we had a long way to go today and he was sending his pack too! We left at 7:55 under gray skies, temperature in the high 50s, on a gravelly farm road next to the highway. We passed a cemetery’s Romanesque gateway (repurposed from the former pilgrim hostel) and started walking among the grapevines. My heel still hurt but with only our day packs we felt lighter and moved at a good clip. When we passed other pilgrims, though, we both felt like slackers and I kept thinking I ought to apologize.

We detoured away from the highway and into Ventosa for a quick bar stop, then it was back to the red soil and midnight blue grapes.

We came upon a picnic table for a fifteen-minute second breakfast or first lunch, then passed the wall with the graffiti poem Pilgrim, Who Calls You? (sadly not in English so I will never know). We kept crisscrossing paths with the three French pilgrims, all greeting one another in French and English every time. Najera has a lovely monasterio but all we had time for was a pit stop in a nearby bar. When I came out Maurice was chatting with a Scot who recognized our British Pacer poles; he had some at home that he uses for hill walking but didn’t see the need on the Camino. We left but the fast-walking Scot soon caught up with us as we slowed on a hill behind a large earthmoving vehicle.

Neil was a talker and seemed happy to slum along with us because we could understand him, whereas few could to whom English was a second language. He talked of politics and the euro and how the English should never have been given the vote: with the ridiculous choice to leave the EU the price of his holiday is higher and who knows what will happen next, except that the Scots will surely vote to leave Britain, but then they’ll be stuck in limbo because the Spanish will never let them into the EU. When he paused for breath I mentioned that our Pacer poles were cheaper once the pound fell. Neil kept us moving at a fast pace as well as entertained, up and down through the grapevines, and we were in Azofra before we knew it, at 1:45.

In Azofra we had decided to go for the municipal albergue, purpose built (as the Brits say) not long ago for the pilgrim throngs. Municipals don’t take reservations and, since their reputations are not always the best, we had avoided them until now. The Azofra municipal was a long solid three-story brick building with interior room divisions made of particle board and only two beds per room, with a light over each bed and shelves for packs and gear. The window in each room opened to a teeny balcony enclosed with what I suppose were metal sun shades with an eight-inch slit for the fine view over the countryside. The beds were only 7€ apiece. They didn’t serve breakfast but there was a kitchen and a roomy dining area with long tables and a glass wall overlooking the big patio outside, where there were clotheslines in the sun, tables, chairs and a fountain for your feet. If there had been outlets in the rooms the place would have been just about perfect.

The Azofra Municipal Albergue (unfortunately I took the picture going rather than coming)

We had a second lunch and a rest while Neil went to dinner early. When he came back he reported that we might want to skip the first bar, as there was a group of Americans already there and they were Democrats. We went there later anyway. The French were in town at a pension and had dropped by our patio to visit. They were going to eat at the first bar, and we thought after all this walking and sleeping together that we should properly introduce ourselves. They were just about finished when we arrived but as we ate they stayed and chatted: Robert, his wife Solange and Robert’s sister / Solange’s old school friend Anne. Only Solange spoke any English, and Maurice doesn’t speak French, so we had a fine bilingual conversation. While we were eating the three Iranian British soccer mates came in and greeted us. Maurice asked where the big blonde guy was; he had an ingrown toenail and had to go home. Earlier today Maurice ran into the young German woman, who expressed surprise that we had caught up with them. And Donna the earth mother is also at the municipal; she has acquired a cluster of women who all wear skirts as they walk.

Jan, Robert, Solange et Anne