Day 17 or High on the Meseta

Notes on Day 17, March 12th, Hornillos del Camino to Castrojeriz



Last night in the albergue, over some shared wine, Corina and I agreed we should walk together today. She and another German, Hans, are from near Munster, Germany. ¨Ah, the cheese!¨ I said. ¨No, not the cheese.¨ Apparently my much beloved German cheese comes from America.



So Corina and I walked together and gabbed all morning long and by 10:30 we were already halfway to Castrojeriz and sitting comfortably in a bar having a cafe con leche and tortilla. (By the way, tortilla in Spain is nothing like a tortilla in the states. It is basically an egg omelette, sometimes with potatos, sometimes with ham, but always pretty tasty. I finally put two and two together that a tortilla sandwich comprised my carb-bomb lunch a few days back.



Corina and I chatted about our love lives, (my ex-it, her ex-boyfriend, her new boyfriend), we yakked about religion and its hypocrisies (apparently she is taxed to support the Catholic church in Germany). We philosophized about being alone and being lonely and the difference between the two, and we covered all this conversational territory as we hiked through the most splendid scenic territory I´ve seen since Navarra.



Both yesterday and today the trail took us out onto a Meseta, a high sierra or plateau of considerable elevation (950m at the highest point). And all yesterday and today the trail flowed gloriously through this shadeless haven of wind and birds and Spanish Big Sky Country.



And the time spent with Corina flowed by effortlessly by too. Soon enough we were passing through the arches of the ruined gothic monastery just outside of Castrojeriz.



Castrojeriz is a great town in the valley below the Meseta. Its medieval winding streets cling to the base of a substantial and steep hill on the top of which sits a ruined castillo of pretty impressive proportions. At first I looked at the climb and then looked at Corina and shook my head. The spirit was willing but the feet were weak. But later after a rest in the albergue, Hans convinced Corina and I to suck it up and climb.



I spent the entire 25 minute climb, between fits of panting, marvelling at how someone could have built something on this crazy mini-Matterhorn 1000 years ago. And when I reached the base of the castillo (Hans was already at the top of the thing waving down to me, I could see why they did. You had the most vast and panoramic 360º views in all directions. Any village idiot could have seen the enemy coming from miles away.



And from way up on the castillo ramparts you could also look back over the vast meseta down from which we had just come. It is like a mountain range with the tops just sheered clean off 1/3 of the way up. It was crazy and inspiring and Hans turned to me and said ¨Look where we are!¨



The albergue was in the home of a cute young ex-Pamplonan who despised city life and moved here to live at a slower pace. And the foundations of his home are just as 12th century as the iglesia directly across the street. The house was a wacky affair. He had randomly inlaid bits of colorful Spanish tile and jewel toned stones in the floor, he had painted the patches of plaster in between the warped half timbering in shades of pale yellow and sky blue so that the walls looked like a patchwork quilt, the lighting and numerous repairs had been completley jerry-rigged with whatever materials were on hand.



I was torn between feeling like it was an utter architectural travesty and completley adorable. In the end, adorable won out. It was homey, welcoming, and his sitting room had these crazy heavy antique carved oak chairs and settee that were geometric and exhilarating. I would have stolen them if they would´ve fit into my rucksack.

And in the evening Corina, who is a lot more gear savvy than I am, helped me make and honest accounting of the necessity of everything in my rucksack. It was, truth be told, still too heavy. I held up each item for her approval. Fingernail clippers? ¨I don´t have this, why do you?¨ OK, clippers: gone. Washcloth? ¨I have only one towel, no washcloth.¨ Washcloth: gone. Photocopies of pages from other Spain guidebook? ¨You can read it later.¨ Photocopies: gone.¨ Deodorant? At first I thought really, what is the point? Applying deodorant to try and mitigate the wave of malodorous funk coming from my armpits is like trying to drain a swimming pool with a teaspoon. Utterly futile. But then I sniffed my pits again and thought every little bit helps. Deodorant: keep.

And I slept soundly in the knowledge that tomorrow I would mail more deadly kilograms ahead of me to Santiago.