Wind

Who has seen the wind?
We all sure saw it today.

Up on the mesa trying to stay protected from the wind

Friday Sept 6, 2019
Castrojeriz to Fromista
25 km, 38,000 steps, walking day #16

The wind informed everything about today.
As soon as I woke up, I hear the wind rushing down the narrow streets of Casrojeriz.

A phenomenal breakfast was served to me at the table. The maitre d' even poured the olive oil on my toast. Instead of protesting, I went with the flow. It was delicious. The maitre' d kept bringing things to my table. Croissants. Fruit. Eggs and more toast. Freshly squeezed orange juice. Coffee. At one point, when she put aother item on my table (the yoghurt), I reflexively said "oh my G*d". We both laughed.

I put some of this away for lunch!

Peeled oranges in the kitchen, awaiting their turn to achieve their ultimate purpose.

Getting my Credentiale stamped

It was 9 degrees C when I left in the morning. Jacket, buff around the neck and gloves were required for comfort in the chill wind. We climbed up out of town onto the meseta. The climb was so steep that there was a sign indicating the percent incline. There were also straw bales at the bottom, for those cyclists (going in the opposite direction) who were unable to make the final curve, and needed saving.

See that path winding up to the top? That's where we're headed

After the climb lasting 1-2 km up, we (of course) had to descend. 18% grade down. You know how sometimes when you come to a steep hill that the road seems to end, and all you see is the end of the road and the landscape off in the distance. That's what we had here. Just as I was finishing saying "Oh.....no...." in my head, and imagining sliding down gravel in all the worst ways, I came up to the edge of the world.

There, I discovered that some committee, in their truly infinite wisdom (no sarcasm this time) agreed to pave this treacherous downhill in very rough and horizontally ridged cement. That surface was a pleasure to descend. Once again, thank you Camino for providing exactly what we needed.

The wind remained fierce. Thankfully it was a tailwind. It roared in the poplars and the clouds sped by. I watched, spellbound, as the patterns of sun and shadow played across the endless fields of sunflowers, grain and corn.

The kilometers melted away as the wind whipped my hair and made taking pictures difficult, since it kept pushing me around and buffeting me as I tried to remain steady to take a picture. The wind threatened regularly to take my hat. Sometimes I would just give in, take of my hat, and face into the wind letting it whistle past my ears and blow my hair off my face for once. At one point in the day I gave up on holding onto my cap, and just took it off, letting my hair whip around my head.

Even though the walk was through meseta country, we did go through a few small villages. Every village has fruit trees growing wild along the roadsides.

This tree is heavy with ripe Bosch pears

Plums are ready, too.

We had a very peaceful walk along the regional irrigation canal. It was lined with tall grass that rustled and bent over as each gust passed, making me think of a line of courtiers in stiff silk, bowing or curtseying to each pilgrim in acknowledgement.

Spain has a lock system on the canal

I had a delicious lunch on the road (leftovers from what I couldn't finish at breakfast) and finally at around 3:30 pm found my hotel in Fromista. It was located within sight of the Church of San Martin - the most spectacular Romanesque church (they say) in all of Spain. It is another of the churches for which they charge an entrance fee. It's usually a nominal fee - less than two euros - but annoying none-the-less.

The San Martin square is lined with restaurants, and I noticed a fellow pilgrim (Deklin McDermott) sitting and reading. I joined him for a bit of conversation.

Following that I had dinner in the restaurant of my hotel.

A local specialty - Castellan garlic soup

Two lovely ladies, each from Ireland sat down at the table beside me, and I invited them to join me at my table. Sheuin had been born in Ireland. Regine had been born in France, and has been living in Ireland these last 42 years. We had crossed paths a number of times today, with each of us taking turns passing the other a few times. They were approximately sixty four years old, and in great physical condition. I freaked one of them out on purpose. During the conversation about the strenuousness of the climb today, I said to her: "You practice yoga". Her jaw dropped and she said "How do you know that?" I told her I was a physiotherapist, and I saw her bend over on the road to re-tie her shoe, and I could just tell. She was speechless, and I was thoroughly entertained. Psychics do mind-reading. Physios do body-reading. Just can't help it. No-one can help who they are, and what they know.