You’ll have gathered by now that I don’t do two-line reviews. I find this theraputic, and it keeps me out of the pub a while longer
I turned up for breakfast about 0710 to see a queue of of fellow guests, peripatetic telephone engineers and tree-merchants (French, x2), filing out with an obvious air of resignation; it was clear that the day was not starting well for them.
All became clear on entering the comedor as the duty camarera informed me ‘nos se ha estropeado la tostadora’ - the toaster was broken, and that’s critical for Spanish breakfast. Whilst the English conveys the bare fact, the Spanish version delivered in a low monotone, gaze lowered, hands out front, palms up more accurately conveys the sense of helplessness, disappointment and consequence from the literal phrase ‘the toaster has broken itself and we are affected’. The Spanish language gives a sense that an unknown third-party is responsible for anything that goes wrong.
Pre-empting the obvious question I was told that the remaining breakfast items were, today, free of charge. That consisted of a cup of average coffee and two small pre-packed cakes, which used to require only four ingredients but now need both sides of the pack to list and which have a ‘use by’ date sufficient that you could safely leave one in your will and it wouldn’t expire.
It’s foggy. That’s unusual, but often a sign of a fine day.
Alfaro in the morning is nice - the time when everyone’s getting up and opening for business is my favourite.
The first 2k out of town are alongside the main road, but then we’re off into the campo. In fact, more so than expected as there’s a long-standing well-signed diversion through the fields on a decent track. The signage has just become more conspicuous - not the almost-touching signs of the Frances, but a distinct change.
It’s a great walk. Some agricultural folks out and about with pears, vines and artichokes the main crops. One chap, in the middle of nowhere, collecting snails.
The sun’s out and the fog’s gone. I’m drenched in an entire pack of citronella and probably wiping-out pollinating insects as I pass.
Now then: artichokes and snails
I get it with snails - they cover the verges of every path in their thousands. It was only a matter of time before someone said: ‘Oh go on then, put a load of garlic on, they’ll probably be OK’ - but artichokes?
I’m not unfamiliar with artichokes, although they’re not regularly on the menu chez HtD; they’re a giant thistle. 99% of the plant is discarded at harvest, leaving the unripe flower bud, from which we progressively strip the outer part until we can nibble a fraction of the inner leaves if dipped in enough mayo or hollandaise to satisfy Belgian taste. They must have been a status-symbol like pineapples, not a response to starvation as I expect caracoles were.
Rincon del Soto is visible, as expected, 4km away. Happily I pass an Electrodomésticos store in the outskirts, so if Mossad have blown up all the toasters someone’s had time to nip out and buy another.
Rincon de Soto’s thing is (or are) pears. They’re everywhere, including on the sellos and the mascot is seated on the square. (Photo)
Second breakfast on the square then a protracted visit to the Ajuntamiento for a pear-themed-sello, and off we go to Calahorra, where I get a definite sense that this is where the money is.
Easy walking, but far enough for the day. About 25km in all.
Straight to the Parador. Yes, you did read that correctly- the Parador. I’m surprised, you’re probably surprised - but we’re jointly in a distant second place to the refined staff and guests who look as though Hagrid has just burst into the Vicar’s tea-party and loudly broken wind.
I can’t fully explain; it must be algorithms (whatever they are) - some combination of a longstanding but unused ‘amigos’ membership; accumulated Booking points (which I assumed were just issued to create some false sense of achievement) and Kim Jong-Un and Elon Musk knowing my precise location and intent. So, through email a few days ago popped up an invite to a Parador stay for €50, and I couldn’t argue with that. The algorithms obviously don’t allow for appearance, odor or alcohol consumption but that’s their look-out.
I thought the room was a bit on the small side, but that was just my entrance-hall. It’s rather nice - or it was until I’d disrobed and unpacked when it looked like a total bin.
Horrifically, there’s a full length mirror and, just out of the shower, the extent of my mosquito bites was obvious. It was only my rucksack straps which have saved my torso - otherwise it’s bad. Very bad. (Photo with parental advisory)
Straight down the the Farmacia again for some hydrocortisone tablets. On being asked the purpose I just pulled up a sleeve of my t-shirt, the young assistant shrieked and uttered something fairly obscene and gathered the entire staff for an opinion. I should get a loyalty card.
Still, we can’t let that spoil the day.
It’s a nice town. The Ajuntamiento was busy on reopening and I had to take a numbered ticket and wait my turn for a sello.
I’ll check-in with Mrs HtD then have a stroll to the cathedral - the opening hours being a matter of debate - then I’m dining at the Parador where I assume the special offer room price will be eclipsed by the food and drink bill.
Barring the obvious, it’s all going rather well.
More later.