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?'