I woke up early this morning and listened to the rain bouncing off the roof before dawn. I had another night of frequent trips to the loo so I'm not really sure whats up there. I'm not being affected during the day. Maybe I'm drinking too much in the evenings. The refugio laid on a really good breakfast this morning. You had to pay for it but it was worth it. If there's only one thing I'll remember San Martin for it will be for the quality of the food in this refugio.
Leaving the refugio it was cold and windy but thankfully the wind would be to my back. I delayed my departure to allow a shower pass through and then hit the road for Leon. It was only 20kms into town so it was a short hop along the busy roads. I arrived into the city centre around 10.30, plenty of time for looking around town. i found my way to the local city refugio which hadn't yet opened, frustrating my need to find a loo. I hung about the door until a lady emerged from the entrance. I asked her if I could use the toilet but she said no, that the place wasn't open yet. I shuffled away disgruntled, clenching my buttocks gingerly and grumbling to myself.
I had no choice now but to look around Leon. Its a historic town, one of the 'grand Dames' of the Camino and a former capital of the kingdom of the Asturias. The city has a long history dating back to the Roman era. The old town is pretty compact, an easy place to explore for a morning. It had the usual features of most Spanish cities, the Plaza Mayor, the Cathedral, the old city walls and some narrow winding streets. I don't know whether it was my delicate disposition or the curt rebuff I'd recieved from the woman at the refugio but I didn't take to Leon in the way that I thought I might. The fact that I had to wheel the bike around with me didn't help. I spent about 90 minutes around the old town before heading back to the refugio to try again to access a toilet. I had more luck this time. The place was open and the woman, very curteous and smiling this time directed me to a sparkling 'el banyo'.
I left Leon for Mansilla out on the edge of the Mezeta. I rolled into town just after 1.30pm and settled back into the refugio I'd stayed in a fortnight ago. The place was open but the reception desk was closed until 4pm but peregrinos arriving early can claim their bunks in the meantime. I was first into the place today. I took the opportunity for a proper look around Mansilla. Its a town with a rich history in its associations with the Camino. An important town in its own right during the medieval period but today it has fallen a long way from the status it once held. Most of the town is still contained within the old medieval walls, long stretches of which still survive. Inside the walls the town has a bit of a delapidated feel. It looks as though parts of the old town were flattened to make way for modern houses and a new street layout although some of the old streets that run through the centre of town follow the original layout. I spent an hour or so wandering around the streets before heading back to the refugio for an afternoon siesta.
The refugio was very quiet this evening. After my snooze I came down to pay the hospitaliero and register for the night, and bumped into a walker from England who'd just arrived. He was an elderly man, his face creased with age and, perhaps, a hard life. He had a long white bushy beard and a shock of long silvery hair that fell to his shoulders. We fell into chatting as we prepared our evening dinners. A quiet, softly spoken guy, he looks like the kind of character who's uncomfortable in large crowds and prefers to be quietly left alone. The man's name was John, originally from London he's retired and has spent the last six months walking. He took a ferry to northern France and was been walking since, basically wandering about the place before joining the Camino at Aarles. He followed a route through Toulous, Auch, and Pau but crossed the Pyrenees east of St Jean pied de Port much higher than where I crossed the mountains. He funded this adventure by cashing in a some sort of retirement fund but now, approaching the latter stages of the camino and with Christmas just around the corner, he doesn't know what to do. He seems to be dreading the thought of what he's going to do after he reaches Santiago. He has nowhere to return to in England and doesn't really want to return to the country, preferring instead if he could find any kind of employment, to remain on the continent. As he spoke he sounded tired. He said he's weary of walking now but with nowhere or nobody to return to the futre is weighing heavily on his mind. He has the look of a very lonely individual.
John has a great love of France, loves the country, the food is comfortable with the Frech character. Regarding both of our experiences and opinions of France and Spain he holds the opposite view to me. Of the two countries he much prefers France and all things French, my affections lie south of the Pyrenees with all things Hispanic (except for French pastries...top nosh!!)
We were joined that night by a third character. A loud exuberant spaniard from Barcelona with whom I would be sharing the dorm. He spoke in rapid, staccato Spanish and it was clear John ws unimpressed. He had already confessed that he'd long given up trying to communicate in Spanish. As for me? it was grand. I sat in the middle of these two contrasting characters and to be honest I got on great with the Spaniard, having a laugh as I practised my Spanish. Another walker, the Spaniard shuffled painfully around the place. He was suffering with multiple blisters on his feet both of which were covered in plasters. Watching how difficult it was for this guy to wealk I don't honestly know how this guy was going to be able to reach Santiago. But the Camino has a strange effect on people. The desire to complete this trek/pilgrimmage/journey whatever label or motivation you wish to apply to it can drive people to overcome many difficulties. Its a remarkable experience, this camino.
By 9.30pm all were in bed. I'd had a few cups of tea with John and was now dreading the possibility of multiple trips to the loo through the night. The prospect kept me awake, and so it came to pass... literally. I must have made at least four trips downstairs through the night. It became embarassing trying to tip toe quietly out of the dorm so as not to waken the other guy oin the dorm. Despite my efforts the creaking floorboards woke him up each time.
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