Another Day, Another Dog

Moclin - Alcala La Real

Day 2

I had gone to bed the night before, comforted by the knowledge that Day 2 was only 22kms. After a 35km killer that shouldn't be too bad. Always the wrong thing to think. I woke up at 3am in the morning, with the compulsion to open up the shutters and look out of my room onto the Moclin town square. I was greeted by the sight of snow. Snow on the ground, snow swirling in the air, cold snow. All I could do was laugh, close the shutters and go back to sleep, so that's what I did.

7:30 I got up again, checked to make sure the snow was still there, and started on the bread and nutella. When in Spain, you know that the bread you're buying is fresh, especially when it's still warm. You'll also soon realise that it doesn't stay fresh beyond that day. Day old bread goes in the soup. I'm sure it still had the same nutritional value, just not much to make the cold outside more appealing.

I was out the door at 8:10, which I thought was pretty good. I set off, the swirling snow turned into a lovely drizzle, but I kept my chin up. Paused on the edge of town where I'd taken a picture the night before to take another picture which showed very different scenes. Still, all I could do was laugh, smile and keep walking. When the track transitioned from snow free gravel to snow-covered clumps of grass, I had a little 'pig-dog' moment. I could have just turned back and waited for an hour or so, to see if the rain and snow cleared... No, I peered into the fogginess, could see that the road was only a little way off to my left, so I had no excuse. I couldn't get lost, my socks were sure to dry and I had a camino to walk.

Silly Spanish snow

It was only 10 minutes or so before I was below the snow line, and could see the distant hills standing their ground the other side of the fog. Smiling again, I presented a cheery face to the roadworkers by the path, who obviously thought they were seeing things. Some guy in a bright red jacket, walking from nowhere to nowhere. Not a bad description. I experienced some high emotion that morning, walking through masses of autumn leaves, the sun starting to peak out, highlighting everything that makes autumn a season worth having. Maybe it was because the drizzle had stopped, and the sun had come out and the contrast had caused a peak in happiness, but I felt I could have walked that path for aeons.

The hills rolled, and unfortunately so did my mood. I reached a section where I had to walk on a road, and put up with some very savage dogs and I remember wondering why anyone would own a dog? But obviously they were guard dogs, and they did their job well, where I was concerned. I was happy to get off the road again after another half hour or so. The yellow arrows directed me away from the increasingly busy road, up a muddy path by abandoned buildings with caved in roofs. I wished that the arrows would keep on pointing away from the road...

At a fork in the track I puzzled for too long on which way to go. One way had no arrows, so not the best option. The other way had many arrows, but also many crosses and the word 'no' on a post. Conundrum! The 'no' made me decide on the unmarked way, until I'd walked a minute along, and decided I liked the look of the other path better. Needless to say, this was a downhill period of the rollercoaster ride of emotions. It was possibly 15 minutes later that the 2 tracks came together. So glad I had made the right decision.

That was the first path that actually led me into the olive groves. Until then I had been surrounded by olives, to be sure, but still on some sort of gravel track. Amongst the olives it was just dirt, which aided and abetted by melted snow, clung to my boots like pilgrims cling to yellow arrows. Every 5-10 steps I did a strange kicking motion that launched 70% or 2kg of the mud on each foot. I was still on the downward slide, when I came to the end of the olive grove with no apparent way ahead. Feeling like things couldn't get any worse, I headed up the very steep hill ahead of me, mud and all, towards some civilisation, and according to my reasoning, a road.

Customs may have a problem with these?

There was a road, and recent signs of disturbance. I then had the choice to make of which way to go. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.... I licked my finger and tested the wind, pulled my socks up and walked right, which was the way which brought me to the next yellow arrow some 20 minutes later. Happy again, and minus the mud I guess I was recovering for the next hurdle.

The next hurdle was of an entirely different nature. Terribly olfactory and horrifying. As I entered a town that happened to be on the way, I was confronted by a garbage truck being filled with dead animals. They had obviously been left in a heap by the paddock where they'd been kept, or rather not kept. There were still live animals in the pen, and it was the most tempted I've ever been, to open a gate and let animals go free. I actually hated that town, even though the rest of it was fairly blameless, if a bit bland.

I was exhausted by this time. I could see a town, but the path was not to go that way. I wondered about taking what I was sure would be a shortcut, but I managed to still the Robertson inside me, and go the proper way. It was for the best, because Alcala La Real was only just around the corner. I loped into town, getting caught up with bunches of school children walking home, annoying me with their chatter. I loped so far through town, expecting there to be more hostals, that I got to the other side. So much for being exhausted! Pulling myself together, I got back up the hill into the centre and found myself a bed. No friendly welcome or chat, just a key and a demand for too much cash. I showered and went to bed, exhausted, headachey and feeling rather sorry to be a pilgrim. Tea was a combination of chips and pain au chocolat. My body obviously needed nutrition. With nothing but a sombre mood for company, I went to sleep, leaving the question of whether I'd keep going until the morning.

A Day in the Life of this Pilgrim on the Camino Mozárabe.

Day 1  Granada - Moclín

It was the morning of the 17th day of November when I set off with a little trepidation, on a camino that had been described as strenuous, only for those with good Spanish, and totally lacking in people. There were a few strange sensations that I experienced that morning. To start with, it was only 1 degree Celsius. We were in Spain; this weather was not exactly as the tourist brochures promised. Another thing that struck me, was that I was walking away from my fiance. It felt strange and not quite right. Nevertheless, I kept on walking along the pavements of Granada, looking for my first yellow arrow, sprayed on a lamppost.
It wasn't long and I was greeted by just that. Off over the horizon was a mountain I was already sure I had to climb, but right in front of my nose, the graffiti style arrow in canary yellow. Comforting, because the forums and accounts online said that the way was clearly marked, but there was very little information, and information in Granada was scarce. So feeling a little better, I walked on, promptly getting lost in the outskirts of Granada. I had googled the route the night before, but things are a lot simpler in 2D on a computer screen. I asked a guy, who had a friendly looking dog, where the camino Mozarabe was, but he shook his head. Bewildered. In the end I just zigged and zagged over where I felt the camino should be, and it was probably half an hour until I saw a wonderful sticker on a give way sign. Yellow arrow on blue background. Phew!

Finally outta town!

I was directed into an outlying suburb of Granada, which already had the feel of Spanish village rather than city, if you could ignore the highway traffic. I promptly got lost again and was starting to regret my decision of camino for 160km and 6 days. Getting lost is not so bad with another person, but it's uncomfortable on your own with no one to share it with. I breathed a sigh of relief to see the sign on a building across the street and went on my way again...
The first distraction came in the form of frost on the ground. I hadn't seen frost since we were heavily snowed on in Wales. Made me think of walking to the bus stop to catch the school bus on winter mornings. Frozen puddles, our breath clouding our faces, trucks hitting the horn at our upraised fists and also memories of finding that 250m walk indecently far...
I began questioning myself again. I knew very little Spanish, I wasn't entirely sure of accommodation options, the way might be properly marked, there were rivers which may need to be waded through, which should be avoided in winter... Plus, that first day was a total of 35km to Moclin. Idiot. Or, I could just take it as a sign of how far I've come since those school boy days. Which was a reminder of how far I still had to get, in only a week!

So the countrified scenery began as I walked away from the outermost suburbs. It was not very special really, but I felt great to be out on the open road. There was less to look at, not so much to distract me, but at least I could see the arrows, and there were less possibilities for the route when there weren't any arrows around. I took a photo of what was left of a field of corn, because when we walked the Camino Frances in April, the young plants were  just poking up out of the ground. A little further on there was a paddock pre-harvest and I 'borrowed' a cob thinking it may be good for tea. However the kernel I picked off it was as hard as popping corn, and much lest tasty. I threw it back into the field, and hoped no one would miss one cob...
The first town I came to was Atarfe. It didn't really interest me much, although it had a massive sculpture in the middle of their roundabout which puts Burnie's rusty entrance markers to shame. There was an abandoned factory on the edge of town that was good for an explore, but with 30 odd kms still to go, I pressed on only taking a few photos of the interesting graffiti. For me, Atarfe was only good for a 1 euro bakery treat.
This was where the first olives started. In hindsight they must have been a hobby farm, because there were no orderly rows, or smart fences and the dogs didn't bark. But I was happy to see them, as I have a liking for olive trees, however useless they seem to be in your backyard in Tassie. Crossed a very new train line next to what would eventually be a new highway, and lost the arrows... I decided my best bet was to walk along the soon-to-be-highway, as it gave me a view to both sides for any stray yellow arrows. I managed to convince myself that those blobs I saw in the distance were fellow pilgrims, although I was a little disgruntled that they were ahead of me. I never found out if they were or not, because I saw another arrow, right in front of me, directing me into the second town of Pinos Puente.

The pretty bridge.

I must have been hungry, because I noticed a pile of discarded capsicum plants with some under-developed peppers left on them... Grabbed the cleanest looking one and had a bite, but was not hungry enough. Taste was ok, but not worth being seen picking food off the side of the road! Got into town and continued my gastronomic walk with what looked to be an under ripe orange. I put it in my bag for later.
After crossing the pretty bridge at Pinos Puente (incidentally puente is Spanish for bridge) I started my first uphill stage into the real olives. Each crest you come to, you see a little further into the valleys, see a few more olive trees, and see the next crest. It was not a good idea to think "I'll have lunch when I get to the top of the hill". Much the same as thinking you'll just walk to 'that corner' on a long beach. I did have lunch at a reasonable 1:15 on fairly high ground, looking at the mountains ranged before me.
While I was chewing on yesterday's bread
Deliciously topped with chocolate spread
I noticed, afar off, on top of a hill
A town so high, it gave me a chill
For I was already of the inclination
That it was to be my day's destination.

I noticed a bulge in my pocket, and recovered the under ripe orange. I chopped it open with the awesome knife I bought in Morocco, which wasn't anywhere near as good as Al's, and realised that under ripe oranges are very similar to lemons. Extremely sour, in fact they should come with 'Don't do this at home' warnings.

As I walked on, I was aware of people around me in the olive groves, but I didn't really see them. The groves may be much more open than a cherry orchard, but you still can't see very far into them. I was able to deduce that the invisible people were busy harvesting though, because some trees were looking battered and bare. They obviously knocked off at 3, because there were suddenly a lot of vehicles careening past me, with curious stares in rearview mirrors. I realised then that the blogs had been correct; practically no one walks this way.

They really do stretch on forever.

I entered a town at the base of the hill which has a town on top. I knew for sure now that I had to climb up there. That camino need, to get to the top of it all. I was accompanied down to the valley floor by a honking bakers delivery van. He was noisy and scary as he tore past me each time, but I had just decided to buy some of his wares, when he comes up behind and gives me a solitary toot. Jabbering away in Spanish, he gestures some rolls and delicious looking pastries, but I chickened out. I was tired and all the Spanish I know doesn't equate to 'that delicious pastry with custard and apple there'. Anyway, he'd obviously climbed the hill ahead and knew how tough it was. He handed me a sweat sugar-topped roll, and a warm crusty bread that had no hope of fitting in my pack. I was very grateful. I nodded and smiled awkwardly at him each time he passed me again...

From sweet, we move on to sweat. The temperature was only around 5-6 degrees, but the degree of the slope was substantially larger. I soldiered on up, because I knew little about where to stay in Moclin, and the sun was sinking rapidly. Wearing 'The Warmth', as I've fondly named my black puffy jacket, I got warm. The sweat actually did start dripping out of the sleeves, but at the same time I was surprised it didn't form into icicles. It felt arctic, or as arctic as Spain can get.

So, obviously looking and feeling great, after walking 35kms the last 3km of which were uphill, I received the perfect welcome in the town of Moclin. An older lady who just happened to be crossing the street at the time of my arrival gave me my second dose of Spanish jabber. After gesturing putting her head on a pillow and me nodding vigorously, she disappeared to grab a key, and let me into a property just up the street. It was warm, it had kitchen, bathroom, washer and most importantly, a bed. We had an extensive conversation in Spanish, which was about coldness, the key and finally dinero. No problemo.

I warmed up under the shower, and then took a walk further up the hill towards the castle. Unfortunately it was shrouded in scaffolding and was closed for restoration. A creepy man scared me away, so I took some photos around town instead. Tried to get wifi in the one bar in town, but they didn't do that sort of thing there. Instead I sat outside the town hall on a park bench in the freezing air, stealing internet from a random wifi network along with a local youth. I let my fiance know I was ok/still alive, reflected that I'd only left her 10 hours earlier, and then had hearty tea of lentil soup and crusty bread. Mmm. A proper meal for a not quite proper pilgrim, after a proper long day.