Day 11: Santa Catalina to Villafranca del Bierzo (70km)

A great day's cycling today. Survived the climb to the highest point on the Camino,1515m. Actually, after being a bit apprehensive about the climb, it turned out to be much better (I hesitate to say 'easier') than I had expected. What I hadn't expected was the steepness of the descent - that was a wild ride! The brake disks on the bike got a lot hotter than I had expected; so I took it in stages to give them a chance to cool down. Visions of the brakes fading at an inconvenient moment restrained me.

A beautiful day as well, sunny but cold at the top. The scenery was gorgeous. The path sensibly skirted the snow-covered mountains  had been seeing yesterday, although at the top those mountains looked like they weren't much higher.

The little stone I had been carrying with me (brought from home) is now part of the enormous pile at the Cruz de Ferro, marking the high point. That little stone has been around the world several times, having originally come from near Austin, Texas. It seemed an appropriate one to choose for the Camino.

At the Cruz de Ferro, I pulled off the path to a shelter there, to be offered a coffee by a French girl, Anneline from Normandy. She's trying to start an alternative life in an abandoned village nearby and spends her day near the Camino meeting the travellers. An interesting lifestyle that might sound idyllic, but can't be easy.

I met up with Joke and Maj on several occasions throughout the day, as well as yet another (Dutch) couple riding a tandem. As an interesting aside, all the Dutch bike riders I've met have ridden all the way from Holland - a trip of well over 2,000km so far.

I pushed through the ugly large town of Ponferrada to end the day in Villafranca de Bierzo. Arriving in the town I headed to my chosen albergue, which I couldn't immediately find. Retracing my steps I came across two women walkers who were looking for the same place. "You could always try another place" I suggested. "We've had our luggage sent ahead to it, so we have to stay there". One of the disadvantages for those who choose to send their luggage ahead to lighten their load; they are then committed to walking that far. I went ahead to find the place, which I eventually did. Or at least, I found the sign. 'Delightful gardens' the guidebook had said. All I found was an overgrown plot, some ruins, and a builder's crane. The place was long gone. At some time there must have been a development planned, but clearly it had fallen through, like so many others, as a result of the financial crisis in Spain.

Bad news for the two ladies -  they had had their luggage sent to a non-existent albergue!

I found another albergue; a very alternative place with an interesting feel. I think Anneline would have felt at home here. A walk into town for a drink turned into a Flamenco Fiesta, complete with dancing, riders on horseback and many women in flamenco dresses dancing in the street. Fortuitous timing on my part, although I couldn't stay too long as I had to be back at the albergue for dinner. In retrospect, I would have been better to stay at the Fiesta as the dinner,interesting as it was, was dominated by some (actually, one) loud Italians. Actually, even the Italians were complaining about him.

To change the subject, one thing that I have noticed on previous trips to Spain, and which is reinforced by this trip, is that the scenery is gorgeous and the towns and villages have delightful old centres. But the Spanish have managed to surround them by pervasive and unrelenting ugliness. It seems that anything newer than, say, 70 years is designed to be ugly. And to make it worse, the ugliness is made less attractive (if that were possible) by an apparent lack of maintenance; if it starts to fall down, build a newer, even uglier building to replace it (but don't remove the original building, just let it gradually fall down).

What a shame - the original villages and buildings are often really nice.

Glowing in the dark

It's late. Almost half past nine in the evening. While in the real world of Spain just outside people are probably just having dinner, here in the world of the Camino just about everyone is in bed. It's lights out at ten. All around me people are glowing in the dark as they use their smart phones or in many cases their iPads to check their email, surf the web, maybe check on the weather forecast for tomorrow's walk or perhaps read a book.

Or maybe they are updating their blogs or diaries.

Simon from Australia "I live in Tasmania but I'm from Queensland" is working his iPad mini. Linda from Canada who I had the misfortune to mistake for an American "When did I tell you that I was American?" is working her Samsung Galaxy S5. I realise later that Linda is just like the woman in the Camino movie, 'The Way'. She was also angry and if I remember right was also Canadian as it happens. The South Korean girl looks like she is watching a movie. the Korean couple "South Korea" the guy clarifies, as if I might have thought he was from the North, are both fast asleep and have been pretty much since they arrived.

Dinner with Simon (the one from Tasmania), May "M-A-Y like the month" and Brendan from Ireland. May and Brendan are 'in their seventies' and have 6 children. "Brendan has 81 first cousins" says May. "Your Christmas card list must be long" comments Simon, but Brendan (who like Simon, is a bit hard of hearing) misses the irony.

May and Brendan are here for the fifth trip, to finish the Camino. "We're Irish" explains May, "we're doing it backwards. We did the last part first and now we're doing the rest." They both have cheat sheets of handwritten notes of Spanish words which their son's au pair (who is Spanish) has helped them prepare. I'm thinking 'this is your fifth trip here and you still can't say 'bocadillo' or 'gracias?'

The conversation turns to accommodation. The Irish are staying in a hotel room. "I want to sleep in a place with a door" says May. The subject of snoring comes up. "No problem for me" says Simon, "I just take my hearing aids out. Of course sometimes it might be me who snores, but I have an oral device that helps keep my airway open. " As it turns out this is deeply ironic.

No sooner are lights out in the room and an enormous spluttering and then rumbling accompanied by various other noises begins. Simon has fallen asleep. Everyone quickly rustles in their bags to retrieve their earplugs. The amazing cacophony emanating from Simon's bed continues the whole night, but thankfully the earplugs do their job.

In the morning Simon joins me at breakfast. He opens the conversation with: "I had trouble breathing last night." I bite my tongue. "Did I snore much?" I feel sorry for him, as much as I hated the snoring.

Day 10: Leon to Santa Catalina (70km)

Yesterday I had met Massimo by chance in a shop in Leon. This morning I'd just ridden to the end of the street after leaving the albergue, and who do I see standing there taking a photograph but Hans, my German room-mate from the previous day. The Camino is a small world. He'd walked the 37km, arriving late, and looked a little worse for wear because of it.

And this afternoon, after leaving Astorga, I'd begun considering stopping a bit early; even though it was only around 14:00, I'd ridden 70 km, including the foothills of the mountains that remain to be crossed (Pyrenees mk3, only higher). So a plan started forming to stop at Santa Catalina de Somoza (not to be confused with Samosas), which also would hopefully mean a bed for the night. The next bigger place (Rabanal) is the end of a walking stage and so the places are likely to fill up early. The closer I get to Santiago, the busier the Camino is becoming.

So I ride into the little town of Santa Catalina and what do I see? A Batavia and a Gazelle bike parked by the side of the path! And sure enough, there's the Dutch couple I'd met in Carrion de los Condes, Joke and Maj. We chat for a while, comparing notes, but they decide to head on to Rabanal. Speaking of bikes, there seems to be many more on the Camino than I've seen so far. However most seem to be small groups, mainly Italians, decked out in full racing Lycra and all the gear. Not my sort of bike riding.

Rather than follow the Camino out of Leon (I had already walked it yesterday) I navigated my own route out through the suburbs onto some lovely small country roads. Arriving at Chozas de Abajo (as opposed to Chozas de Arriba, or course) I rode into the village trying to imagine where the local bar might be (time for my morning café con léché). It's a little place, with no street names or signposting. But before you know it, there's a yellow arrow painted on the road, and on the gutter is another yellow arrow with the word 'bar'. Clearly I am on or near the Camino!

The Camino is signposted in a very wide variety of ways, with a general theme of the scallop shell of St. James and yellow arrows. But in many places local bar and albergue owners have obviously taken it upon themselves to add extra marks to 'help' you find their establishments (even if they are not necessarily on the official path).

Today snow-capped mountains appeared on the horizon, directly ahead in the direction of the Camino. A bit ominous! The pass at the Pyrenees was 1057m, the Puerto de la Pedraja was 1150m, and tomorrow it's 1515m. It's going to be interesting. And just as I was thinking that was it, I now see there's another pass coming in a few days ('only' 1337m).

My bed for the night is in quite a nice place (many steps up from the garden shed!). I am learning that the smaller private albergues are generally nicer with more character than the larger municipal or church-run ones. But they're all different and each is an experience.

Saw an older couple walking the Camino hand in hand today, not very practical perhaps, but very nice just the same.

Day 9: El Burgo to León (38km)

The garden shed proved to be cold as promised, but the sleeping bag was up to the task and in fact I slept well. Probably also something to do with the quiet. Or maybe it was the light gently filtered through the adhesive stained glass windows.

Hans, my room mate, left at the usual early time. I took my time and then went to the local hotel for breakfast; the usual café con leche, tostados as and orange juice. The only others so late were two French couples having a leisurely breakfast. Their table was groaning under the weight of fruits, tarts, juices, yoghurts and more. No mere Pilgrim breakfast for them! They had been doing the Camino in stages; this was their fifth year. Two sisters and their respective husbands. But it was the husbands who were the walking enthusiasts, the sisters following.

I set off and about ten minutes later had caught up with the morning peak hour traffic of walkers. It seemed I was constantly ringing my little bell and wishing people 'Buen Camino'. I'd discovered that often the bikers simply rushed past the walkers without even a warning of their approach; no wonder my little bell was appreciated and I got smiles in return. Soon I came across Hans and we exchanged photos. Then there was Mikel and a bit later Suzie, who was talkative as usual. No sign of Massimo. It wasn't until some 15 km later that I caught up with him. He must have left really early.

León was the objective for this (short) day. I wanted to spend some time exploring the city and get in early enough to be sure to get a bed. Mission accomplished and I am staying with the Benedictines tonight.

Walking around town I came across a Camino/outdoor equipment shop and went in to browse. And there was Massimo! He'd walked the 37 km and it wasn't even late afternoon: he must have been keen.

Waiting for the tourist office to open (they close for lunch; clearly tourists are expected to keep reasonable hours) I realised I hadn't had my morning café con leche. There a are worse places to have a leisurely coffee than on the square in León looking at the cathedral and the people there.

Dinner in a local bar where even though they serve a Pilgrim menu, it's the locals who are the main customers. Of course at 19:30 I am eating (since the albergues close at around ten) while the locals are just here for their drinks and tapas before going out for dinner (which they will do around the time that we Pilgrims are going to sleep).

I have passed the halfway point already!

More people

I saw a cyclist up ahead. Small and going rather slowly, wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket. I've seen that jacket before I thought. I came up next to her and a familiar face turned towards me, her face lighting up in recognition. I'd last met her as she was walking up the last big hill, several days ago. "Look at my husband" she exclaimed, pointing far ahead, " he doesn't even know where I am!"

Her bike looked like it had been bought rather a long time ago at Kmart or maybe Carrefour. No rack; she was carrying a rucksack 'but not much inside, my husband has most of the weight'. I pointed to the basket on the handlebars. It looked like it had her shopping in it in plastic bags. "That's my sleeping bag, a bottle of water and here's the bottle of wine." Bottle of wine? I am impressed. Here she is struggling on a totally unsuitable bike, she's only been riding for a couple of years and she's carting a bottle of wine. "Of course", she says, " it's for lunch ". She looks like she'd be more at home sitting by the fire knitting booties for her fifth grandchild, yet here she is on the Camino. " My husband says he'll buy me a new bike when we finish. "

The other day I saw an old Japanese guy dragging his backpack along behind him on a little folding trolley. With tiny wheels he was really struggling over the rocky ground. Today at the albergue there was a tall elegant Italian with flowing white hair and an enormous white handlebar moustache. He had a very precise backpack and turned out to also be pulling it along with him on a trolley (although a rather better trolley than the Japanese). I wonder whether these people had set out carrying their packs and perhaps couldn't manage. Rather than stop, they chose to continue like that. Impressive.

My bike was joined by a couple of others at the albergue yesterday. A nice solid Gazelle and an equally solid Batavia. Good 'degelijk' Dutch bikes. Nobody but the Dutch would be seen dead on a bike like that, especially out here. Later that evening I spot two rather solid women with close-cropped hair, sharing a drink and observing the storks in the nest on the bell tower of the convent. There's my Dutch bikers I guess and I go over and strike up a conversation. I am right, they are the bikers, a couple from Holland. They've ridden from Holland, a distance of something like 1900km. How long have you been going? "Almost three weeks" they say. A quick mental calculation and I'm not sure I've understood correctly. So I check and confirm. Yes, they'd been averaging 100km a day! "But we can't do that here; too many hills". I feel better (but only a little). Neither of them look remotely fit (there's some significant excess weight generously on display). Just goes to show.

Dinner with an interesting group (but they are all interesting). Massimo is Italian. He's introspective but when I pry a little he opens up. His wife (girlfriend, corrects Suzie, who we are about to meet) has just left him and he's on the Camino to sort out his life. Suzie is Hungarian "boot I live in Dooblin" she adds with an interesting mix of Irish and Hungarian in her accent. "I grew a sixth toe I had so many blisters". And then there's Mikel from Croatia. He turns out to be the first person I've met on the Camino who is a true Pilgrim. "There's three holy destinations: Santiago, Rome and Jerusalem" he explains. He's been to Rome and hopes one day to go to Jerusalem. "But first Santiago. My ankle's swollen to twice its size, but I'm not going to quit like those Americans do."

"Look, there's Santa Claus" exclaims Suzie. This seems a little unlikely given that it's May and it's Spain, but I look anyway. And sure enough, if Santa Claus was on the Camino that would be him: Red pants, red jacket, a red hat and a big bushy white beard. "We've seen him several days" explains Suzie. "We don't know his name so we call him Santa Claus. He doesn't stop talking and even though we don't understand a word he says, it doesn't seem to stop him."

Speaking of colours, at a café con leche stop the other day I saw a woman sitting there; purple top, purple socks, and a matching purple back pack. 'American' I think to myself. I can't help myself: 'You're well coordinated' I venture. And lo and behold, she's from Ohio. "We call ourselves the Purple Pilgrims" she volunteers, obviously pleased that I've noticed her efforts. And I'm thinking 'there's more than one of you?'

Hans is German and very deliberate in his manner. He doesn't say much, but you can tell that every word has been carefully selected. You can tell that he gets frustrated with speaking English when he knows he hasn't found exactly the right word. Somehow the discussion turns to his recent holiday in Turkey. He begins to recount the cost of the trip (it's only much later in the story that I understand why this is relevant). It starts with an offer of a 99 euro 7-day package holiday. Once he's signed up for it he begins discovering that it really was too good to be true and the true cost ends up being closer to 500 euro. He travelled with his wife but they needed separate rooms since they are "how do you say, 'divided'" he explains, knowing he hasn't got quite the right word. And I'm thinking 'why would you go on a package holiday with your ex wife?'

Day 8: Carrion to El Burgo Raneros (64km)

The whole dormitory was pretty much deserted by the extra early hour of six am this morning; everyone wanting to escape the incessant loud coughing from one guy that kept everyone awake all night. It started early, and I noticed people putting earplugs in - I quickly followed suit but it didn't help much. Throughout the night my thoughts about the guy oscillated between concern for his health to wanting to lynch him.

I'd had dinner with Bernard, a Frenchman from near Versailles. Three kids, recently retired, oldest son in Montreal married to an Indian 'a real one, not the American kind'. He and I had arrived together and when he found I spoke French he was thrilled. He'd been struggling with English he said, although it seemed pretty good to me. Dinner conversation went to French politics (a subject ripe for all sorts of irony and mockery, especially given the latest scooter-based exploits of the President). The bottle of wine we shared as part of the Pilgrim meal emptied quickly. I never knew that Pilgrims were such big drinkers, but even when there's no dessert included in the fixed menu, there's always wine (and bread, come to think of it, so there's some biblical inspiration there I suppose).

The weather forecast was for wind, showers and possible thunderstorms. Not the most promising news. The wind was forecast to be 10 to 18 km/hr from the W to NW. My route for the day was to take me to the west, with some sections towards the northwest. And here a westerly wind is cold.

Wind. It was to be the theme for the day. It was exactly as forecast and it was relentless, making for tiring riding. And then there was the rain. I noticed the storm clouds coming and at the first spots of rain I'd stopped and put on my jacket and waterproof pants, feeling smug that I had been so proactive. After an hour or so riding in this rather uncomfortable gear, and with the clouds coming and going without any actual rain, I stopped again to take it all off again. No sooner had I repacked it all into the panniers and set off again then the rain started in earnest. I just had time to out the jacket on when the heavens opened; there was no point in trying to get the waterproof pants on. I hoped that the wind would later dry my socks. Did I mention the wind?

By the time I'd been riding almost 60km I'd had enough and made a plan to stop at the next place,some 7 km away. This is a real luxury here - the next place is often not that far away; try doing that in Australia! Naturally, on arriving, I found my chosen albergue full. Strange how the nicest places always seem to be the first to fill up. On my third attempt I found 'Albergue Laguna', a rather ill-conceived and out of place complex with a somewhat tropical theme. Plastic sun chairs under metal poles with artificial thatch roofs, that sort of thing. Again, not surprisingly the dormitory section was full, but they had places in the "cabins" (I would not have been surprised to find these underneath fake palm trees). The cabins were essentially garden sheds, with a small shed as toilet. To be fair, some effort had been made to make them comfortable and the inclusion of perspex windows with stick-on fake stained glass made them feel quite homely.

Hans (From Hamburg) is my room-mate for the night. We'd arrived at around the same time and did a deal for a choice garden shed for two. 'You will be cold' explained the owner, with a spectacular lack of salesmanship. Maybe I'll finally get to use the sleeping bag I've been lugging around Spain.

Seen along the way

As you ride along you have time to look around. Obviously you're slower than in a car (although equally obviously faster than walking). It's a nice compromise since things change quickly enough to keep it interesting but you have enough time to observe.

There's a used condom on the road. Another story to be told. Perhaps it's from a truck driver after a 'rest' stop with one of the roadside 'service' providers you see in certain parts (I had not seen any on this trip so far).

The birds that seem to like following you; they pop up as you pass, fly alongside for a while, then land on the road ahead flikcing their tails and looking back at you as if to say 'is that all you can manage?' Then as you approach the cycle (no pun intended) repeats itself.

I had a Falcon follow me for quite some time as well. Not the nearly extinct four-wheeled variety still found occasionally in Australia, but the surprisingly large feathered type. He (she?) flew lazily overhead for what seemed like several km. I wasn't sure whether this was a good or bad sign, given that they are birds of prey targeting the weak and soon to expire.

Yesterday someone made an interesting observation about who you see on the Camino: it's only the old and the young; the others don't have the time.

Day 7: Hontanas to Carrion de los Condes (56km)

It's seven in the morning and I am again alone in the dormitory. There's been a different demographic in the dorm than on previous nights; I must have been the youngest of the entirely male group. They are mostly Spanish, and when together as a group they are not particularly considerate of others in terms of who may be asleep. Nor are they quiet. The lone Korean on the other hand did not say a word to anyone and seemed to sleep the entire time. Mr. Grizzly, my Italian neighbour, had his worst fears met and the night was alive with the sounds of not music but of alternate contributions to the record of loudest snoring - punctuated throughout the night by equally loud swearing in Italian.

After the by now obligatory café con leche, zumo de naranja and pastel, I set off in the rather cold morning. It was around 6 degrees, but blue skies were just appearing. Before too long, I caught up with the walkers, including my Italian neighbour and Marylin, who I rode next to a while and chatted with, until we came to Castrojeriz, a lovely neat town in a photogenic setting. The Camino becomes a beautifully paved path through the town. If you're ever in need of someone to do some paving, then find whoever made this path. The workmanship is just incredible: the joints were so perfect I could not even feel them under the wheels. Interesting the things you notice.

It struck me later that yesterday and today I have had some of the nicest riding of the trip so far. Apart from the fact that it's been relatively flat - and even better today with no wind (the hundreds of wind turbines you see in this region were all silent) - the countryside and scenery is simply gorgeous. Strange, because in a sense it's also boring; gently undulating fields of wheat and barley and large expanses of flat land. I felt like I was riding through a continuous Windows XP desktop.

Riding through Windows XP desktop scenery

Soon after morning cafe con leche and pinchos (I am getting into the hang of  this) I came across a German couple (from Dusseldorf, not Bavaria) riding rather heavily-laden bikes. While riding with them we had a lengthy conversation (in generally one-sided German) about all the equipment they were carrying; tent, cooking equipment, food, and so on. And I haven't even used my sleeping bag yet and am beginning to wonder why I am lugging it around all over Spain.

It's been gloriously sunny (but cold) all day. In the afternoon I even rode without my warm jacket for the first time, and dug out the sunglasses. Which made me remember a forum post about what to take on the Camino: this guy was saying he was going really light, and was not taking any sunglasses since the walk in generally to the west so the sun's behind you. He probably saved 50g right there but equally probably carried 1kg of bananas and 1kg of water with him each day. It's all relative.

I arrived at Carrion de los Condes around 14:00, and since the next places are some way off, I had ridden 56km already, and the glorious weather meant I could do a big wash and have a chance to get it dry (things take on different levels of importance when you're on the road) I decided to stop.

Tonight I shall sleep under Christ on the cross who is hanging over my bed. I'm staying in a former convent school and it's a fascinating place. The woman running it (in uniform) is wonderfully efficient and kind. Another new experience.

Bed for the night - watched over by Christ on the cross

The rigours of Pilgrim life

Castrojeriz

Day 6: Burgos to Hontanas (56km)

A late start to the day, despite being woken up well before the crack of dawn by my downstairs neighbour. I waited for the crowd to leave and vacate the bathroom before getting myself ready to go. Pack the bike and catch up with emails etc. before being unceremoniously thrown out of the albergue at 8:15. There's a cafe across the road from the albergue which has cleverly established itself as the 'go-to' place for pilgrims looking for breakfast.

Then I  had a mission. Find the local Carrefour (hypermarkert/shopping centre) to do a little shopping. One thing you learn when travelling in Europe; you can always rely on a good hypermarket to find what you need even if you don't know what it's called. And a Carrefour in France is the same as one in Spain so you know where to find stuff. I convinced the security guard to let me park the bike outside the shop and went in for my mission: Two bananas, an apple (admittedly both available elsewhere, but I figured that since I was there..), a small tube of hand cream (hands are suffering from a combination of washing clothes by hand each day as well as the exposure on the bike all day in all whether - yes, I know, I'm a softie) and the main event, a little present for myself: a bluetooth keyboard to use with the (now functional) smart phone. The blog entries were getting a bit long to be typing with one finger on a screen. So you're enjoying (or not) the fruits of my morning's labour.

Leaving town following the Camino meant the usual forced riding down one-way streets the wrong way, using footpaths, and a couple of km of gravel path before finding the road.

I chose to follow the road for the first part (a German biker had come to grief on that section Jacques helpfully told me) but later decided to turn off and follow little country roads back to the Camino. This proved to be a great decision and the ride was along some lovely peaceful (but sealed) tracks essentially following the Camino.

I stopped for a coffee and pinchos (the local name for tapas) at a little local bar. The sort of place where the fairly rough-looking locals appear and are served their regular drink without a word being exchanged. One gets a glass of fino, the other an espresso into which the server pours a generous helping of local brandy. The guy looks like he has more than one of those each day.

Arriving at Hontanas I decide it's enough for the day, even though some walkers also make it here from Burgos in one day. It's a tiny place, completely dependent on being on the Camino. But it has a nice feel to it. I meet Barbara and her husband from Poland and Marylin from Newcastle (the one in Australia) and we end up having dinner together. The Poles are doing the Camino for the second time (they were here last September). When I ask them why they didn't choose to walk somewhere else this year they have no answer. It's just the way of the Camino.

The people you meet (reprise)

I think I left you with Marlene, yet another German. I noticed she had a small diamond in her front tooth and commented on it. "I had it done when I was 13" she says, "but I'm not sure I like it anymore." I bite my tongue and reassure her it looks great.  A bit like Erica the other night; she had an enormous tattoo running down her arm. A collection of animals of her state (fox, bear, deer...) "I still need to add some rabbits and maybe..." Rabbits are nice I agree sincerely (I like rabbits, although I have my doubts about having them permanently engraved on my arm).

Jacques is French (with a name like Jacques he could hardly be anything else). He's riding the Camino on a well-equipped bike that's obviously seen some km. "This is my fifth time" he says "aller-retour". He's also biked across Europe "10 countries". I meet him again later on the day; he's sitting by the road having a snack. I meet him again two days later in Burgos as we're preparing to leave. I note that he's riding without a helmet. "Yes, I am ashamed" he tries to convince me, but it's not comfortable.

Coming into Burgos, I am following my nose to find the nice bicycle track that follows the river, rather than the official route that goes along the roads. I briefly consider resorting to the GPS, but remember that the phone is still not talking to me after its toilet incident. And I generally am pretty good with direction, and know I am close to the river. It's just a question of finding the best path. A couple appears in the distance, notices  me and calls to me. You're going to the cathedral? Go that way, it's much nicer. The guy even comes over to explain, and I am on exactly the path I needed. They could have just kept walking.

The path along the river is indeed nice, looking a bit like snow has just fallen, but the thick white piles along the bath come from the trees.

In the albergue there's no sheet or pillowcase, which is unusual. I see some people doing their washing and go to the first guy I see there to ask him where you go to get sheets (some beds have them). He looks at me like I'm from another planet. Actually, I think I must be looking at him a bit the same way. He's got lovely blue finger nails (with gold glitter) close-cropped hair and rather delicate (made up?) features. He's about my age. I notice he's wearing colourful ankle warmers and a nice floral scarf. He seems ill at ease talking to me.

I see the same man later chatting with someone. Except now he's wearing a large blond wig and lipstick. The next morning as I'm leaving Burgos on the Camino, I see him again. He's carrying a rucksack. Now he has a brunette wig on and he's wearing a short skirt over leggings. Fascinating.

Miguel, the Spaniard in the bunk under mine "from Segovia" is a man of few words and no English. He's up at 5 am (thanks Miguel) and is gone by 6.

Still at the municipal albergue in Burgos, after registering with the guy at the desk (his small son is handling the money) I am shown a young woman who is to explain where I should find my bed (and perhaps also explain the rules). She doesn't speak a word of English, nor, interestingly, Spanish. Turns out she's Hungarian, perhaps some volunteer  programme. Still, it seems an odd choice for a guide. She is, not surprisingly, no help whatsoever in answering my later question about sheets. A helpful German (again!) woman understands my request and translates it into Spanish. The Hungarian girl just looks stunned.

An Italian guy I am sharing the room with tonight (it's the overflow room of the albergue, there's about 20 beds) comes to me in a conspirational manner (we have some French in common) and says "Grizzly" like I am supposed to understand what he's talking about. Quite some discussions later, it transpires that he's talking about a particular guy who's in bed (it's only 4pm) commenting on how much he snores!

It can happen to you

An interesting day. Actually they've all been interesting; this one perhaps a little more eventful than others. In fact this update from your correspondent almost didn't make the presses.

You hear of it happening to others. 'That could never happen to me' you say smugly. 'What were they doing with the phone there anyway?' 

You've found the 'little room' and locked yourself in for a bit of peace and quiet.You turn around and glance down. Nothing particularly unusual. Water and some evidence of the previous user. Then suddenly bang! clunk clonk splosh! For a second it fails to register, then the reality of the back cover, a battery and the rest of a mobile phone floating down to the S-bend appears. Then you realise it's not just a mobile phone, it's your mobile phone and all becomes horribly clear. Thrusting aside any thoughts of what you're about to do you plunge your hand in and retrieve all the pieces. Thank goodness the SIM card is still there!

Trying not to drop things you scramble for the toilet paper and start drying everything, pushing to the back of your mind where exactly it is you've just had your hand. Someone outside is trying to get in; you've been there a while and you haven't even been able to do what you came there for. Will the phone ever work again? How are you going to explain this to your daughter, who lent you her phone so you could keep in touch?

Nothing to do but ignore the increasingly persistent attempts from someone to open the door and do what you came to do in the first place, balancing pieces of phone at the same time.

You've never been so glad to see that there's soap at the wash basin and you've never spent so much time washing your hands.

When you've finally convinced yourself that your hands are clean, you open the door and ignore the queue of angry-looking people waiting outside. Heading straight back to the bike, the first aid kit gets opened for the first time; the alcohol wipes will come in handy to dry and disinfect the phone. Everything is put in the (fortuitous) sun. Everything is reassembled and with not much hope the phone is turned on. It works! But then it doesn't. It takes the whole day trying to dry the disassembled phone but it still won't work. Luckily I'm in Burgos tonight. It's a big city and I can buy a new phone. I start to imagine how I'll explain this to my daughter.

In the albergue I suddenly hear the heating come on and have a brainwave: I'll put the disassembled phone on the heater to try to drive the water out. It's my last chance. First try, nothing. Second try,the phone comes on, then shuts down again. I leave the phone to cook (who will steal a phone in pieces from a heater?) and I go and do my washing for the day. When I come back, without much hope, I turn the phone on and wonder of wonders, it works!  Let's hope it keeps working!

Day 5: Belorado to Burgos (70km)

This morning I was riding along and it struck me that it was a morning for the senses. It was cold with thick mist. The world had been reduced to a monochrome of greens and greys. Beautiful. It was quiet with the mist suppressing the usual noises. I could hear the gentle rustling of my chain through the cogs and the whir of the tyres on the road. But only just. Occasionally an early bird call. In the distant fields I caught an occasional glimpse of Pilgrims walking the nearby Camino.

At the albergue this morning early departures were the norm. By the time I left there was almost nobody left. On the washing line I saw a forgotten pair of woman's underpants and a pair of men's socks, waiting in vain to be collected. Maybe an interesting story there.

When arriving at the albergue I had been given the choice of a 5 euro bed or one for 7 euros. As if I was supposed to understand the difference. On asking I was told that the 5 euro bed was in a room with 14 beds and the 7 euro bed in a room with only 8 beds. Why not lash out and treat myself I thought? So I went with the 7 euro bed. I was alone in the room at first, but later Jonasch from Germany (but not Bavaria) joined me and we had the room to ourselves. Jonasch introduced himself as 'married' (he had a ring) but later it turned out that this trip was his pre wedding last solo trip 'my wife doesn't like walking' he said. When I commented on his somewhat unusual name - I thought it was perhaps more eastern European - it led to a discussion about an artist called Jonasch and he took out a small wooden toy, a stripy cow with wheels, and showed me the artist's signature: Jonasch. He'd been taking photos of the little cow all along the Camino. Cute.

Later on I come to a sign; 6% grade for the next 3 km. It's the Pyrenees all over again and the road climbs to 1150m at Puerto de la Pedraja. I feel like Puffing Billy blowing huge white clouds out with each breath. I've taken the road here to avoid the steep climb of the track, a strategy of limited success. I decide (since I have the time) to detour back to San Juan de Ortega to rejoin the Camino. It is here, after coffee, a sandwich and a chat that I drop the phone. Ironically in about the only place on the Camino with no WiFi and barely any reception.

While I'm there I see a blind guy with his guide dog arrive. I've heard about them and their amazing walk. It's a couple: he's blind and has his dog. But not only that. They are pushing a bicycle trailer with inside, like two little Gumnut Babies, are two small children, probably twins. And here I am thinking riding the Camino is a challenge!

I also meet ( on the road) the Dutch couple riding their tandem bike. I last saw them when going up the Pyrenees. They've ridden the roads the whole time.

I decide to continue along the Camino track, a poor choice as it turns out. The path is only just a track and it's so rough and rocky and steep that even the walkers are complaining. I end up pushing the bike for some three km. At the top of the hill there's a girl sitting in the centre of a circle of stones, probably assembled over the years by hundreds of Pilgrims (the circles, not the girl). As I approach she gets up to start walking again and we walk together. She's German (I detect a theme in the walkers I am meeting). She says her name is Marlene. 'Like Marlene Dietrich' I observe, immediately realising how corny that must sound. Happily she says: 'Das ist meine nameschwester' and I am let off the hook.

To be continued

Day 4: Logroño to Belorado (74km)

This morning I saw the guy who had had the luck to sleep on the floor last night. When someone had commented on it last night his reply had been: "I'm young". So this morning I asked him how sleeping on the tiles had been and whether he still felt young. " It was hard " was his reply. I don't think, given his poor English, that he realised what a good reply that was with perfect ambiguity. "But I must not be pay 11 euro" he added. So not having to pay (a decent gesture from Mrs. 'Tranquilo' I thought) made his hard night worth it.

I left the albergue at around 08:00 and was the last to leave. I chose to follow the marked Pilgrim trail through the town, something I have learned is not as easy as it might appear to be. That's because the signs (and in Logorño they are known to be bad) are meant for the walkers and are difficult to see and follow from the road. I was doing fine up to a point. Then the markers had disappeared. That's another problem with following markers; if you miss a turn there's nothing to indicate it except for the fact that you can't see any more markers. And then it's a question of how far you keep going until you admit to yourself that you missed the turn. Which is of course a function of how frequent the markers are and how stubborn you are.

So there I was. Stopped and looking at my (totally inadequate) map. Imagine that you have a map that shows the route from Sydney to Melbourne and you're trying to decide which street to turn at in the suburbs of Goulburn (non-Australians will have to substitute their own equivalent places). You get the idea, it's a question of scale. And then along comes a bike rider. There's a lot of bike riders in Spain, of the kind that go for a 50km sprint during lunch time. He stops and asks 'Camino?' By road or the path? (My Spanish is coping so far). Then he says 'follow me' and he's the lead bicycle for the 500m detour back to where I should have been. 'Buen Camino' he says as he goes on. And that's how it consistently is. People seem to go out of their way to be helpful and welcoming to those on the Camino. Nice.

Later in the day I am stopped on the road to take a photo and have a drink and a bike rider suddenly appears (it's an uphill stretch, I have been going slowly and he's probably a hill climber so he caught up quickly). Everything OK? he asks. Need any help?

Leaving town the path passes by another 'checkpoint'. This one's manned by Marcelino and he's called it the 'ermita del peligrino'. I stop and ask for a stamp in my pilgrim passport. Marcelino has just finished dispensing opinions on the purpose of the Camino to some people in front. He's the type who can sit there all day, day in day out, dealing with all comers. I say, in my best Spanish: Usted es muy amable. He gives me a huge gap-toothed grin (surrounded by a mane of shaggy grey hair) and says: y un poco loco! 

No rain today! And even some flat stretches. But the quaint little albergue I decided on a whim to detour to when I'd had enough for the day (at Viloria de la Rioja) is full - not really surprising with only ten beds - so I continue on another 7km to Belorado.

It's sunny and windy so I decide it's washing day at the albergue.

The people you meet

Dinner in the old town last night, at Café Moderno. This is a lovely old brasserie style place with attentive young waiters who know their stuff and are good at chatting up the customers. Cleverly the restaurant has positioned itself as a Pilgrim destination: they have a dinner service from 19:00, ridiculously early by Spanish standards, in time for the Pilgrims to be back at their hostels before the doors close at 22:00. Then around 21:00 the normal dinner service for the locals can begin.

We were seven for dinner: Sarah and Noah from Georgia. Georgia USA Noah took care to clarify somewhat redundantly. I thought they had rather appropriate names for the pilgrimage. Sarah is nineteen and was thrilled to be able to drink wine with the meal. Jessica from California (but I'm not from there originally) had dyed blonde hair and a tan that looked like it took a lot of maintenance. The Spanish waiter made considerable effort to charm her (he's hitting on her said Tabatha). At one point he said to me: "She's your daughter? I want to marry her."

Erica looked like she would be perfect for a role in a 1930's period show.  She was bubbly and definitely not shy. She had spent a year working in China as a teacher 'I had no qualifications' and was now taking a year off to spend the money she'd earned. Tonight was a splurge for her, which took me a few minutes to digest. After all we were having the Pilgrim menu at 10 euros. Erica is 24, making Tabatha at 31 the 'Mom' of the group. Tabatha had traveled extensively and impressed me on arrival at the hostel by doing Yoga on the tiled floor, folding herself in half in the process.

"DB" was the odd man out in the group (so was I of course, but the others had walked together that day). He was Korean and probably about 65. I'm retired he told me. I go on group travel with my wife but walk alone so I can meditate. He'd come here to find God and through his complete lack of understanding any of the humour of our conversation was in some way the life of the party.

Bunk beds and snoring

The night before, sharing a room with the 'girls' was a relatively quiet event. Except for the whispered conversations between the Spaniards in the early morning. Last night I experienced the snoring that I had read about. I even came prepared with ear plugs as a last resort. With a room with many males the snoring was pretty impressive and it seemed that whenever one went quiet, several others would take their place. I suspect that some of the older and larger 'boys' were probably the culprits.

Then around 5:30 the first stirrings could be heard as those wanting an early start started getting ready. The occasional flicker of torches could be seen as people searched in their packs. By 6:30 many have left already and things are getting a little quieter again. It's 9 degrees outside (at least according to my smartphone), I am still on my top bunk observing the preparations. It's now 07:00 and time to get up.

I am getting better at typing on a smartphone although it's a painful process. I hope you are reading this slowly because I am certainty writing it slowly!

Day 3: Lorca to Logroño (63km)

I should probably clarify something from yesterday's entry: The 'girls' I shared the room with turned out to spend most of their time comparing their various ailments and looking at pictures of their grandchildren. Not a lot in the way of interesting company there.

On Hills

I thought that when I'd crossed the Pyrenees I had left the hills behind me. I should have paid more attention to the topographic map. Navarra is VERY hilly and it seems that the small roads and paths I am taking were planned to go over every one! Probably a legacy of the time when the villages were built on the tops of hills for defensive reasons.

I've also discovered that many sections of road that look like they are going downhill are really going 'less uphill'.

I thought of Joseph often today. Not 'the' Joseph who perhaps other pilgrims are thinking about, but his namesake who I had met in Pamplona. When we had discussed the relative merits of walking and riding (he did both) he noted that in Germany they say that the bike riders always look angry or like they've been fighting when they get to the top of a hill whereas the walkers look happy. So whenever I got to the top of a hill, if I spotted walkers I always tried to look like I'd just had a good time.

Actually, the gorgeous view that often greeted me at high points was enough to bring a smile.

Wind. Lots of it and always in the wrong direction. On the flat it was either coming straight towards me, or from the side. I'm not sure which was worse. An Italian pair of bikers (or is that a pair of Italian bikers?) commented "the wind is not helping" (these Italian bikers had some English, unlike yesterday's group). I found it difficult to sympathize with them since they were riding with no packs or bags, having arranged to have their luggage sent ahead each day (to pre-booked accommodation).

A banana for breakfast this morning. Then 8km to Estella for the first café con leche and a croissant. The whole way in the rain. Coming out of the bar I was greeted by sunshine. But no sooner had I captured the moment 'on film' (what's the right expression now that it's all digital I wonder?) and the rain returned, staying with me until Los Arcos, 20km further on. Clearly it was time for another café con leche. And lo and behold it worked! The rest of the day there was sun (and cold wind) and I have the bike shorts tan to prove it.

Leaving Estella I made a few hundred metre detour up a dirt track to see if the famous 'wine fountain' was really true. And there it was, with two taps: one labelled 'agua' and the other 'vino'. I briefly thought of filling my water bottle, but thought better of it and made do with a couple of caps full. I didn't want to be drinking and riding after all!

By about 15:30 I arrived in Logroño, after getting my stamp at the little 'checkpoint' by Felisha who has apparently been there for many years. Since this is a large town and is a well established waypoint on the Camino, the first three hostels were predictably full (probably booked by Italian bikers with no luggage). I finally found a place with space, a bit out of town and run by an older woman whose main philosophy seems to be 'tranquilo' which is not a bad way to deal with a bunch of tired pilgrims all wanting a bed and a shower.

40 beds in one space. One bathroom (with three showers). Boys and girls mixed, backpacks and washing everywhere, and it all works just fine.