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After what felt like an endless day walking into the wind, the next day’s afflictions were the opposite of the day before: sun and the absence of wind.
I waved goodbye to my hosts, let myself out of the albergue gate, and started towards the big hill overshadowing Castrojeriz. The morning sky was clear and bright and waves of mist rose from the river nearby. I strung my poles through the straps of my daypack behind me so I could start writing my letter about walking into the wind, which made my initial pace slower than normal. I reached the foot of the hill, took out my poles, and started walking with intention. The incline was tough and I again reverted to counting my steps: walk for 50 counts, pause, breathe for 10. Walk for 50, pause, breathe for 10.
A German woman passed me on the way up the hill. I was resting and squatting to stretch my calves, and she stopped to ask if I was okay. I smiled and thanked her, realizing it might have looked like I was in early labor. She was sitting on a nearby bench, applauding, when I finally crested the hill. I offered her a wide smile and then turned to look east, back over the valley behind me, appreciating the distance I had covered up to now. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back to feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and then turned to look west towards Santiago.
Here, the promised flatness of the Spanish Meseta stretched out in front of me. Today, I would walk my typically 11ish miles, but sometime in the next week, I would walk my longest stage yet. It wasn’t quite hot yet, but the still air made it easyfor the flies to swarm around the face, which was really annoying. I unbuttoned my shirt and noticed the skin on my chest slowly turn pink (I have to remember to re-apply sunscreen) by lunchtime. Storks circled overhead and I began to notice their giant nests perched atop bell towers in every town I passed.
I arrived by early evening at an eclectic albergue run by a Dutch couple who had left their home in the Netherlands during pandemic to embrace the adventure of owning a hostel. They served a delicious community dinner of Indonesian food, and offered everyone cake, to celebrate the birthday of one of the pilgrims. The German woman who had greeted me at the crest of the hill that morning was staying in the same hostel, and all of us hung out and talked for some time after dinner.
(End point: Juntos Albergue, Boadillos, España – Distance 11 miles)
On April 10, I had planned a 14 mile walk, working up to what would be my longest day two days later, my body now almost 33 weeks pregnant. The weather was sunny and beautiful, but the air felt dry. A light wind kept the flies off my face and the clouds moving overhead, but I still felt the dryness. By noon, I had drunk nearly all the water in my reservoir and was grateful for my backup .7 liter bottle to refill it. All day, my timing for food was off, arriving in places at the wrong time, or not finding anything open at all. The only place I encountered at lunchtime was a disgusting old dive bar that offered a Serrano ham sandwich.