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.