(Boadilla del Camino to Carrion de los Condes: 25.1 km, 6.25 hours with 1.5 hours breaks; 34,457 steps, plus about 2200 later)

Mark 1:1-13
v. 12-13 At once the Spirit sent him out into the wilderness, and he was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with the wild animals, and angels attended him.

Maurice’s harp wakened us gently at six and we were the first ones up. I gathered my supplies in the dark and headed to the unisex bathroom. There was a bug on my towel. Well, it’s not like there are any screens around. I squashed it with a piece of tp and it was red. I will not panic, I will not panic. I showed it to Maurice. Our early start devolved into dragging all our belongings out into the sitting area, where there was a dim light and we could use the flashlight more easily, and carefully inspecting everything. Almost right away I found another bug crawling on my waist pouch, which had been hanging with my towel at the head of the bunk against the wall. Our French-Canadian roommate Tom was methodically packing up on a nearby chair and looked quizzically at our controlled frenzy. “Bedbugs,” I mouthed. He did not seem alarmed and walked back to the bunks, where Maurice had just spotted another bug on the wall. Tom, apparently expert in many things, did not think it was a bedbug. Indeed, these bugs were bigger than I thought the abominable creatures are. We did not find any more, nor had there been signs of their presence in the bunk room. My bunk was by the window and Maurice wondered if whatever these were had entered that way, crawling right down onto my hanging things. Not exactly wild animals in the wilderness but close enough for me, an unholy trinity of pestilence and gore. Lord God, thank you for moving the bugs right where we could see them and for your attending angels to alert us to the issue. Thank you for your peace.

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We were up at six, the first ones, quietly getting ready until The Incident, which caused enough delay that we were (no surprise) the last ones out at 8:30. Because of the blisters we decided to send the packs again, and I returned my old shoe to my left foot. After a quick breakfast in the cafe we soon were cheered by our lovely path along a canal with yellow morning sunlight peeking in and out of dark clouds.

At 9:30 we got to Fromista, so named because the Romans grew bountiful harvests of wheat in the area for the empire. We had time for some groceries, Maurice’s cafe con leche, and a quick look for me in the perfect Spanish Romanesque church of San Martin (Maurice said it was not necessary for him to pay to go in because he had seen it the last time we were here and remembers it), with fine curves and beautifully sculpted capitals and a checkerboard pattern around the outside; I got out just as a bus tour was entering.

As we left town we passed the hermitage we had taken such a lovely picture of six years ago; with the morning shade rather than the afternoon sun it looked completely different. Another hermitage seeming to sink below the road in a little town invited a peek with its door ajar.

The “soulless modern senda” along the highway, as the guidebook called it, was so smooth we decided not to take an alternate, slightly longer but shaded route. Most pilgrims diverted so we were often alone on the path, with minimal traffic. Our walk was hedged with blue, yellow and purple wildflowers, some of their stems decked out with tiny snails.

In Revenga de Campos we posed with a pilgrim statue and admired a stork nest on the bell tower that actually had a stork in it.

In Villarmentero de Campos, an albergue with a big shady yard doubled as a bar and offered tables and chairs on the grass for picnics. It was just what we needed, although there were ducks, chickens and noisy geese under foot as well as two burros who charged in through the entry in the hedge, scared by a motorcycle. As we ate, the air was filled with the music of the German group Gregorian. With water fountain and WCs too, it was a delightful stop, but we had to go or the beds of choice would be gone.

In Villalcazar de Sirga the 12th-century Templar church towered over the town. I took a quick look inside while Maurice rested, then we filled our bottles with cold water from the fountain, posed with the pilgrim statue and left in twenty minutes.

We knew we had a long walk today to Carrion de los Condes. I don’t know what the name means but every time I thought about the town I pictured vultures eating dead things. On we marched by the highway, in the sun, with our blisters, through the dust, on and on. We got to town at 2:45, by which time I was the carrion of the condors, trod to a pulp and sizzling in the afternoon sun.

I had selected the Santa Maria albergue where the loving Augustinian sisters would sing and pray over us but there was a sign on its door saying it was closed for the day, sorry for the inconvenience. Well. I had a second choice ready, though, the Casa de Espiritualidad de Belen, run by the Philipine Brothers and farther through the streets of town. Halfway there we remembered our backpacks–we had had them transported to Santa Maria, whose doors were shut tight. Where were they now? We trudged to the edge of town, through a tall iron gate, up a long set of stairs, through an entryway to a lobby where an elderly nun (I suppose) prattled on showing us a price chart. I got it. We would take a double room with dinner and breakfast. She scowled. What was the problem? Something about juntos. Well, yes, we’re together, we’re walking the Camino together. She continued talking more about juntos and regarding us suspiciously. Aha. “Look!” I said, grabbing Maurice’s hand and holding our matching wedding rings together. “Ah.” She relaxed. “Cuarenta cuatro anos,” I added. She was not impressed but agreed we could stay. “Un problemo,” I said, and began to say Spanish words related to our misplaced backpacks. Uno momento. She shuffled off and returned with a sister who used to live in Florida who could translate. We explained and asked if they could call the transport company. Much talking in Spanish. “Sometimes nobody is in the parish office,” said Sister Florida. But just call the transport company and ask them. More chatter. Finally, yes, they could call. Soon our packs were located at the Holy Spirit monastery (our third choice for the night). But how would the packs get here? “Don’t worry, we’ll go get them,” I said. We dumped our day packs in a lovely clean, new room with bleached sheets and towels and a private bath, a room that could be in a welcoming retreat house anywhere. Then, after over 25 kilometers already, we walked out to look for the Holy Spirit albergue, stopping at the pretty Santa Maria square where we spotted a shop with flip-flops on display outside. Maurice needed a new pair and we hadn’t been able to find any in his giant size. There weren’t any here either, but we did each get a cozy long-sleeved lightweight fleece on sale for only 9.95€ and Maurice promised he would carry mine when I wasn’t wearing it (mornings are getting a bit nippy). We found the albergue with our packs; the nun on duty was so pleasant we wished we were staying there instead, but never mind.

Back at Belen, the shower was hot and abundant and I didn’t want to get out. I tended the new blister over the old one. I tried the piano I had spotted in the entry hall; the rest of the cats in the province must live in it. Then, wet laundry in one hand and Maurice’s unwashed things in the other, I went looking for a tendedero and a washtub. I found a cheerful nun in a pink housedress, but “tendedero” did not get me a clothesline. She talked and smiled and gestured and at last took me to the basement and down a long hallway to a laundry room. She wanted me to put all my laundry, even what I had just washed by hand, into a gigantic washing machine and leave it to her. “Solo calor bajo,” I said, eyeing the maw of the equally large dryer; I really didn’t want my few and valuable hiking clothes in the dryer at all but I didn’t know how to get them back. No, she seemed to be telling me, it’s not a dryer. A spinner maybe, to get even more water out of your clothes; we had seen them at Roncesvalles. In the end I had to trust the nun and leave.

Maurice went to a farmacia and found some hypafix, a cloth adhesive recommended by Tom the French-Canadian and most suitable for keeping blister bandages in place. Soon I went to see about the laundry. It wasn’t ready, but did we want to eat? asked Sister Pink. Eventually we went to the basement comedor, a big dining hall for guests but set for only three: Maurice, me and Pam, a pilgrim from New Hampshire. A short nun brought out the first course, a big platter of broad beans cooked to perfection with carrots and potatoes. They were wonderful beans, and we had helping after helping until the next course arrived, tender breaded chicken cutlets with fried eggs. Sister Short moved to take away the first course but we wouldn’t let her; we intended to finish every last bean. There was salad and bread and a bottle of wine, then yogurt for dessert–one of our best meals, and for the lowest price we had ever paid, only 6€ apiece.

I was late for the pilgrim mass, a good walk away at Santa Maria and rumored to be in English. It wasn’t, but there was an optional handout of a translation from Spanish into a selection of languages. As we received the Eucharist a small group of sisters sang Lord, You Have Come to the Lakeshore; they were the Augustinian nuns who had closed their doors to us that day (maybe they needed choir practice). After the service pilgrims came forward for words of blessing in several languages. The priest named various countries, asking pilgrims to raise their hands when their country was called. Then the nuns had a gift for us. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t weigh much,” said the sister translating. Each pilgrim came up to a nun or the priest for an individual blessing then was given a paper star made by the nuns, a reminder of the light of God, his light on our path, his light shining in our hearts and all sorts of lovely symbolism. It was very moving. To my surprise I had seen Tom the German during the mass so I waited for him afterward. “I thought you were finished with church,” I said. He smiled. “I heard what you said last night and I wanted to try it again. I felt so much love here.” I was able to say a few things that he seemed to hear before I said good night. He reminded me to get earplugs and try a heavy metal concert.

When I got back to Belen I found our laundry in the lobby, unshrunken and neatly folded.

Santa Maria in Carrion de los Condes

NB:  We’re headed away from good internet, so it may be a while before I can put up anything else.  Don’t give up–I’ll be back eventually!