Camino de Santiago (Part Four)

Spaniards love their sleep. This is, of course, true of people everywhere, but the Spanish have three hours of sanctified nap time every day. The shops close, the shutters go down and the siesta starts. We found in a few of the smaller towns that people will walk around in their dressing gowns all morning. I guess there's little point in getting dressed when fairly soon, you'll be back in bed. What's more, the Spanish fondness for slippers and sleep wear has to be seen to be believed. In the biggest cities, through to the smallest towns, there is always one shop specialising in bed-wear. There may not be a pharmacy or a butcher, but you are almost guaranteed a window display full of slippers.

As a pilgrim, sleeping can be one of your biggest challenges, but it isn't the albergue owners who are to blame. Generally the mattresses are fairly comfortable, the pillows soft, and, give or take a few bed bugs, quite reasonable places to crash after a hard day's walk. No. The finger of blame must be pointed at Santa. Or more accurately, the Santas. With their white beards, considerable girth, and tendency to walk around just in their underwear, these men, from all corners of the world are guaranteed snorers. Some snort sporadically- the inconsistent grunting making you sit up in bed and look around for a strange hairy creature- but most have the consistency, tone and stamina of bears gnawing their way through a six-course feast, while you, out of frustration, gnaw your way through your pillow.

I wore ear-plugs. Eddy tried to adjust to the rhythm, each night willing himself not to get annoyed. I think in the end, I got more sleep. There are other things that come into it too- the sound of people whispering in French while you try to get some shut eye can be quite soothing, the same thing in German can lead to bad dreams. Zippers become the enemy, as do plastic bags and there is a lot of money to be made by the person who patents a non-rustling sleeping bag. But all these things are just part of the experience of communal living, and I think we dealt with it a lot better than other people. Walking poles are banned in the dormitories for two reasons, 1. because they tend to fall over in the night, and 2. because they have sometimes been used as weapons against disturbers of the nocturnal peace (ie. Snoring Santas).

We left Leon on Eddy's birthday. Out of 800km of walking through remote landscapes, this was the only place we got lost. It was a relief to leave the industrial estates and sprawling suburbs behind and get out into the open countryside, guided once again by clearly painted yellow arrows. That night we stayed at an albergue with a pirate ship out the front and writing all over the walls. It was a mellow, cosy place, made even more so by the fact that just as we got there it started to rain. We got up early the next morning to experience walking in the darkness. When the sun rose we could see snow-capped mountains up ahead. It was a long day's walk but by the end we were at the foot of the mountains looking up at where we would go the next day. What's more, it was cold. We had decided to take advantage of the washing machine and dryer at the albergue and wandered into town in our thongs and base layers. It wasn't long before we were back, shivering in front of the fire and waiting for the dryer to give us back our thermals.

The mountains we crossed over the next few days were called Las Medulas and were once the most important gold mines in the Roman Empire. The people who lived on the mountain were renowned as some of the most trustworthy in Europe as they used to transport the gold to larger centres. As a result, the communities prospered. Today, it is only the ruins of stone houses that point to such a prosperous era. The path we were following was beautiful and we climbed to the highest point of the entire walk at the Cruz de Ferro (1504m above sea level). Eddy added his stone, carried all the way from Killongbutta, to the cairn there. A few miles along, we were able to see out over the plain we would cross before climbing the next and last set of mountains. Below us lay a fertile stretch of farmland and vineyards with more accumulated wealth than we had seen on the whole trip. A steep descent led us into this world of expensive modern houses.

In the pretty, but exclusive town of Molinaseca, the albergue was closed so we walked on into the evening to the next one at Ponferrada, five kilometres away.
It was like a family reunion. People we hadn't seen since our second day were there along with others we'd lost along the way (those who had taken the bus!). We cooked a communal dinner that, due to the small number of working hot plates, took considerably longer than usual. It didn't matter, there was plenty of company and bottles of red wine to keep us going. We finished late, and crept into our dorm. The snoring had already started and we settled in for another night, two tired pilgrims with a long way yet to go.