Day 10 - Astorga - Ponferrada

We got on the road late at 8:30. It was a steep climb. Strangely we found ourselves caught up with all sorts of other cyclists, notably a team of six Italians, an older French couple who seemed to have packed everything they owned, and an older German chap, Harold, who became our ‘Dad for the day’. I first spoke to him when he was stood by the road, sweating profusely, as I thought he needed help. I asked if he was OK. He said, “fine, it’s shady here”. I pedalled on and later Lou walked with him up the mountain.

As we reached Foncebadon which our big, fat, granny pants book says is abandoned but actually has a refuge with a bar and café. I stopped there to wait for Lou and Harold arrived, calling out to walkers “Agua?” and as he looked knackered I quickly offered him a spare bottle I had in my panniers. He said he didn’t need it, he just wanted to check that he could get fresh water before he threw the hot stuff out. Lou caught us up and after an emergency cigarette break we set off together for the top. The first top! There were two – unfair. The first was marked by a pile of projectile sweating cyclists and a couple of chipper chaps from a Basque cycling club who had overtaken us many times along the route.

Another climb, the first on which I’d got off and walked, partly because we met up with the Madrid guy from the previous evening and I’d stopped to talk to him. From there we cycled on to the Cruz de Ferro, a cross on a pile of rocks, left by pilgrims as a symbol of unburdening themselves of sins and asking God for forgiveness. Oddly there’s no need to carry the rock or even a pebble there in any kind of penance, you just pick one up there and throw it on. That seemed rather shallow to me. The pile is older than the cross and the Christian tradition, but no-one seems to know how or why it started.

I poured on the last of the wine from Irache and sat and looked for a while in a moment of reflection for everyone who has helped us on our way. There have been lots of them, from Captain Birdseye at St Jean, through all sorts of direction givers, translators, bike fixers and accommodation finders.

The Italian bike team had lots of fun taking comedy photos whilst a couple of other folk adopted meditation positions that they appeared to be taking way too seriously, and they adopted seriously sanctimonious attitudes towards everyone else.

Down an alarmingly steep descent and we took a break to cool the rims, but too late. As we got ready to move on Harold’s tyre burst. The rim heat had melted a hole in the inner tube. We waited with him while he fixed it. It seemed mean to leave him, although every passing cyclist offered help and he had 2kg of tools to work with, but no tape, so we were of some use as he could fix his odometer with Lou’s insulating tape.

I’d been looking forward to the descent but it was horrible. It was absolutely terrifying. We stopped frequently to cool the brakes and rims, but it was tough to stay below 20mph and my fingers hurt from all the braking. We wound our way down to El Acebo where Harold wanted to wash his hands and we stopped for lunch. It was the best sandwich in the world – yesterday’s spicy tuna mix bocadillos, dipped in egg and deep fried, served tepid.

Descending then on cobbled streets was dodgy but not as dodgy as the super speed descent through the hairpin bends. Terror. When we got down to Molinaseca there were people swimming in the river. It was dammed at one end to allow enough water to build up for swimming. I took off my shoes and vest, leaving on my cycling shorts and bikini top, and went in very gingerly. It was icy cold and the cobbles were dangerously slippery. Lou’s ear meant that she could only paddle, but Harold was off and away, whittering about childhood holidays by the Rhine. He hadn’t been able to swim as a little boy and had always wanted to swim in a river, this was his first chance.

Into Ponferrada where we said goodbye to Harold. We booked into a schmanzy hotel in a quiet square, with a great balcony for laundry drying. Unfortunately it was only quiet because it was siesta time, and turned out to be the main square. There was a statue right in front of the hotel that people wanted to have their photo taken with, so everyone’s photos had our underwear in. We even saw some people taking their photos deliberately at an angle to be sure to get our laundry in shot.

We strolled about looking for somewhere to eat, but nothing until 8:30. After a drink in the Chelsea Bar, a strange take on an English Sixties theme bar we walked up to the Knights Templar Castle, which was impressive, but we were tired and the ruins were badly marked up so it was difficult to understand what was what. Then it started to hail, great big chunks of ice that hurt when they hit, although it was still warm.

The Basilica was quite unpleasant and had ‘candles’ that you lit by putting € in the slot and then a bulb came on for a time allotted according to how much money you had paid. I left, outraged.

We headed back to the hotel for tea, lots of tea – squid in ink, prawns, mussels, and mushrooms, washed down with yet more rosada. I regretted that the moment I woke up when the seafood fought back. I sat in the bathroom feeling shivery and cold and hot and faint – not a good mix. Luckily we’d packed Imodium, which did the trick.

Go to: Ponferrada to O'Ceberio

Day 9 - Leon - Astorga

We got the bikes out of the cellar and on to the road to Astorga. There was lovely flat tarmac, and rolling hills. A big climb before Astorga meant we had a cool, long descent into the suburbs. Another big hill into the city centre, guided in by the Cathedral which had a decidedly cheap look about it compared to Leon.

We sat down on the wall outside the Cathedral and looked longingly at Gaudi’s Bishops Palace. It’s fantastic and we were so looking forward to going in but “Cerrado todas de Lunes” – swines. We went to the Cathedral which was nice enough but I fear Cathedral overload is setting in.

The walls were largely covered in really horrid colourful sculptures with scarily muscular cherubs. We paid our 2.50€ to go into the museum – no pilgrim discount here. Strolling around there was plenty of bad art, with lots of disembowelling and beheading, but a disappointingly low relic count. We saw a few, but with no attribution. There were a couple of gross silver cases with bone bits in that had writing on it in ink, but we couldn’t see it. They were designed so you could carry the relics with you in your pocket for divine protection.

We have stopped off for lunch and a rest. We need to kick around here for a while until it cools off. Lou just calculated our statistics so far. 560km done, 290km to go. 18,200 feet climbed. She also set to work on the injury list. Mine was way longer than hers so she just chipped a tooth in a pathetic attempt to get back into contention. I ate some top cakes, including some form of butter buns which are famous in Astorga, whilst Lou had chocolates. We then stopped off at an Alburgue to pee, pick up a sellos, and stock up on water.

We started on the ride out, helped as ever by a random stranger. Up and down a few hills, but still really hot out. An old bloke flagged us down and insisted that we visit his village. Despite the fact that I’d pinned a Union Jack I’d found onto the back of my panniers, he still assumed I was German. I wasn’t keen on seeing his village but he kept touching Lou’s arm and it was clearly freaking her out so off we set, walking up the hill as it was too cobbled and steep to cycle. Castrillo de los Polvazaras was indeed pretty, but we were soon cursing it as another ‘helpful’ chap turned around his bike to offer us advice.

Steep rocky tracks took us out of town and we soon met a three way junction with no signs, and no real road for that matter. We knew which way was west, but were focussed on getting to a paved road so walked up to a peak so we could see further. I spotted a village and decided to head towards it, and after about a kilometre of very slow combination of walking and cycling we got there, and much to our delight it was the village we were originally heading for, El Grouchi.

A couple of lemon ice lollies and a chat with a somewhat confused Irish lad later we set off. The climb was long, but not particularly hard. We’re about 900 feet up from Astorga. It’s still hot.

We happened across Rabanal del Camino a little quicker than expected but disaster struck. There was no room at the nice refuge, no room at the nasty refuge and no room at the church refuge. A lady gave us advice – just go over the mountain, there’s refuges there. That advice would be a little easier for her to follow as she hopped back into her Renault Espace and drove off.

We scoffed sandwiches and pop to boost our energy levels. I got talking, again against my will, with Tonto and his mates, they were doing the Camino on horseback, and we saw their horses tied up outside. In a pathetic attempt to win sympathy we asked the refuge guy for help. He couldn’t even put us up in his barn as it was full, with sleeping bags all over the floor and Tonto’s horses were occupying the stable – he pointed us to the church. It was full, so we went on to the hostal – completo – but the barman clearly took pity on me when I asked in an exhausted attempt at Spanish, “donde esta una camal en Rabinal” which I think meant “where is a bed in Rabanal”. He told us to wait. He introduced us to Joe who he appeared to say he had a room at his house. At that point it didn’t sound so weird so we followed him home. He had a sort of holiday house, a Casa Rural, we got one double bed and our own bathroom – fantastic. We love Joe!

The only rule seems to be don’t wake Joe. We whizzed out to the store and bought loads of scrummy rations and some local wine then I had a quick chat with a family from Madrid who were staying at Joe's house too. We shared a kitchen and dining room with them. They were watching the news on TV and the Dad translated the news for me. Europe is in the grip of a heat wave with forest fires everywhere.

We’ve got into a routine with the strangers that stop and laugh at us in the street.
Spanish person: “Caliente?”
Us: “Si”
Spanish person: “Haha, Cansada?”
Us: “Si”
Spanish person: “Hahaha, Camino? Santiago?”
Us: “Si”
Spanish person: “Hahahahaha, Buen Camino!”
Us: “Gracias, adios!”

After a trip back to the refuge bar for a rioja, it was getting dark and we saw the mountains burning fiercely to the south. It looked impressive, but also worrying. We certainly couldn’t outrun a fire on the bikes. Madrid Dad assured us that they were far enough away and that there would be warnings posted on the road if the fires got too close.

Go to: Astorga to Ponferrada

Day 8 - Religios - Leon

I slept OK, considering. All our roomies were men and the dawn chorus of escaping gas was interesting. Lou’s ear is painful after our water fight and there was some blood in it so we’ll find a hospital in Leon today.

I’m writing this bit in hospital! It’s a very nice hospital and the nurses are as helpful as they can be with my little Spanish-English dictionary. We got on the road early, there’s really little choice once the walkers start rustling their plastic bags from 4am onwards. We were in Leon by 10am – lovely Cathedral. Lou saw the ‘bike boys’ from Puenta del Rey, who seemed bemused that we got there first. They were pointing at our bikes in a confused manner, but waved happily when they saw us. I think they’re convinced we ride through the night.

We wandered around aimlessly in search of a taxi. We eventually got a cab by flagging down one that was already occupied and getting him to radio a friend. He took us straight to ‘Urgencias’. Pathetic efforts to get admitted followed, with Lou pointing at her ear, looking sad and waving her E111 form at anyone would look at it. I think there are four people ahead of us but I don’t suppose it’s sequential. Nobody looks horribly ill, although we were overtaken by a lady on a stretcher from the ambulance.

It would be quite nice if they could patch up my finger, which hurts, and take a look at my ring fingers, which have developed a strange circulation issue, my knees which are creaking and the nasty saddle rash on my bum, oh, and my lips which are burned and really sore today.

I’ll be glad to move on from the high plains – I’m even missing hills. My map bag has gone all melty in the sun and my thermometer is bust – it couldn’t take temperatures above 120°F/50°C and the red mercury replacement stuff has all broken up.

The hospital trip wasn’t too bad – for me. Lou got poked around and there seemed to be some confusion as to how she got ill. I said “Feunte”, the doctor said “Feunte? No!”, I insisted “Si, feunte, si!”, mimed sticking my head under a fountain and showed her the word in my dictionary. A light bulb moment – she said “Camino de Santiago” and laughed. She went to get another doctor who spoke English, but once again he wanted to talk to me in German. I’m getting paranoid, I think it’s a combination of my height – this area is full of tiny people – and my thighs, which are becoming decidedly East German. I stole some Mefix from the hospital. It worked a treat on my knuckle, which kept bleeding and the Band Aids kept coming off.

The doctors seemed concerned about Lou’s ears over the mountains, but they are not infected, they’re inflamed. We struggled to get a cab because although I tried to call one I really couldn’t make myself understood. Eventually I used my phrase book to ask a porter to help me to call one, he went to the front desk and sorted it out for us.

We got a prescription which we managed to fill in a curious old pharmacy where a chap with unfeasibly long eyelashes was waiting in the queue. I like to think he was waiting for his eyelash cream. We had a coffee and no sandwich at a fancy café by the Cathedral. They had no cheese apparently, but Lou had a ham and cheese sandwich. From there we went to Gaudis strange castle here and had a quick look around, then on to lunch where a deeply unhelpful waiter is refusing to give me tomatoes. I’m grumpy now. I’m sure the Cathedral will cheer me up.

We saw a monk in his full brown habit with rope belt, but with a modern colourful backpack. It was strangely disturbing. The Cathedral was good with acres of stained glass everywhere but it was a bit dark. There was a mass going on so we couldn’t investigate fully.

I scoffed some of the teeny cakes which Leon claims to be famous for, they were very good. We picked up some postcards from another unhelpful shopkeeper. We’re way behind as the last couple of town have been too small to stock postcards. I have a new theory that the closer a person works to a building of great beauty the more unhelpful and surly they become. That certainly applies here, and I know it applies in London and Paris.

Once it cooled off we decided to ride out of Leon and just see how far we got, based on how well Lou’s ears held out. It was a beautiful ride out alongside the river and past an old monastery, but also past the first McDonalds I’ve seen! It was nice to encounter hills on the way out. We got about 10-15km out and Lou was tiring as the tablets were making her feel strange so we stopped at a great looking hotel only to be instructed by the intercom to go down to the hostal fifty yards on. I thought they may have seen the stink lines coming off us and didn’t want to let us in, but it was the same company and the fancy hotel wasn’t open yet.

The chap at the bar was very pleased with himself that he’d talked to us on the intercom and after a couple of pops to cool off we took to the room. Compact and bijou! Dinner was fabulous – paella and grilled squid (chipirones a la plancha), Lou had salad and salmon. A bottle of the best rioja rosada in history helped it down they brought us coffee-esque liqueurs in frozen glasses for pudding – divine!

I slept like a very sleepy person. Morning still came as a surprise though. It was already over 30°C before 8am.

Go to: Leon to Astorga