The Santiago Road: The Eleventh Day

Monday, June 3, 2002

Portomarin to Santiago de Compostela
97.54 km, total for trip 952.29 km

After an excellent night’s sleep in Portomarín, I packed up the bicycle and headed west. Leaving the town I immediately came to a long, steepish hill and the road gradually took me away from the Río Miño watershed, through a green region of thick gorse and heather and rolling hills. Apparently in medieval pilgrimage times this section was notorious as an open-air brothel but 800 years later there was no sign of anyone. The green landscape was barely settled and I enjoyed riding along the quiet road although skies were overcast. After 20 kms or so I came to the hamlet of Ligonde and then went on to Palas de Rei. The latter, according to legend, was named after a palace constructed by a Visigothic king of the 8th Century, Witiza, but there is no sign today of its significance.

I took a break in a little park near the path and using the last bit of power in my cellphone gave my friend Karl in Canada a call for his birthday. It was nice to hear a familiar voice after this length of time cruising semi-inhabited Spain by myself.




I was now on a major road, the N 547, which would take me most of the way in to Santiago. It was still early in the day and rather than hurry the ride, which was going to be less than 80 kms, I made a detour and followed the original pilgrimage route for a while. This was a dirt track not far from the main road and although it was muddy in some parts that fact that I was riding on 25 mm tires helped my passage. It was nice to have the feeling again of being on the original Camino and occasionally I saw old stone crosses or milestones marking the distance and direction to Santiago. I passed a few hostels, and numerous walking pilgrims, and had my credencia stamped in several places as well before I turned back towards the N 547. It was getting darker and I was worried about the weather. This proved to be well-founded as an extremely light rain began to fall.

Next on the road was the village of Leboreiro, which had blossomed during the pilgrimage heyday, offering support for pilgrims from the 11th to 13th Centuries but there is not much there today but an old church which was rebuilt in the 18th Century. Continuing onwards, I crossed a small medieval bridge with four arches over the Río Furelos into the village of Furelos and then arrived in Melide, which spread out along the Camino.

I passed several smaller towns: Arca, Ferreiro, Cerdeda. Soon I saw signs for the Santiago de Compostela airport and passed through Lavacolla, where pilgrims traditionally stopped to bathe in the stream before entering Santiago. Ahead of me now was a 5 km climb up Monte de Gozo. Arrival at this summit was a momentous event for many pilgrims, who recorded their joy at reaching the top of the last hill, from which they had a view of their destination, Santiago de Compostela.

The Monte de Gozo today has a number of communications towers on it, along with a huge establishment for housing visitors. Rather than being isolated, it is actually now within the easternmost suburbs of Santiago. I swiftly rolled down the hill and entered the outskirts of the city. As I approached the Old Town, the roads narrowed and traffic was pretty terrible. I went in through one of the gates but turned around as I saw a likely-looking little hotel. A room was available and there was an courtyard where I could lock my bicycle up, although it was open to the elements.

After unpacking my panniers, having a shower and getting dressed, I went outside to survey the city. I decided to bring my credencia with me in the hope that I could get it stamped, which I did at the Oficina de Acogida de Peregrinos opposite the Puerta de Platería. I was given a questionnaire to complete about my motives for making the pilgrimage and after I had done this I was presented with my compostelana, the treasured certificate (in Latin) entitling me to all the benefits of being a successful pilgrim, such as spending a reduced time in Purgatory.

I had actually taken less time to ride the Camino than I had expected and now I found myself in Santiago with a few days to spare. I decided to just relax and enjoy the city to its fullest. I looked briefly at the cathedral, deciding to spend more time in it tomorrow, and then found a musical performance was being offered at the University. So on my first day in Santiago I not only became a certified pilgrim but I enjoyed a lovely concert version of Gluck’s opera “Iphigenie en Tauride.”

The Santiago Road: The Tenth Day

Sunday, June 2, 2002
O Cebreiro to Portomarin
75.99 km, total for trip 854.75

Cycling above the clouds

O Cebeiro is a significant stop on the Camino for several reasons. A hospice for pilgrims that was run by the Benedictines and was supported by the Crown and donations poured in after 1072. There is a tradition that the Holy Grail was hidden in O Cebeiro and a miracle in the 14th Century was attributed to it. There is a small pre-Romanesque church in the village but in fact this is a reconstruction undertaken after 1965 after foundations were discovered. The other feature are the low, oval stone houses with thatched roofs. They are of a style that dates back to the Celts and are called pallozas. They have two rooms--one for people, one for livestock-- and a single door. There are no chimneys, but smoke simply escapes through the thatch, curing hung meats and sausages on the way out. The structure is perfectly suited to the environment with its fierce mountains winds.

Again the rain had ended when I woke up and after a cup of coffee and some dry peanuts, I rolled out of O Cerbeiro, ever towards the west, on a very minor road, the LU 634. In a few minutes I came to San Roque, which at 1264 m marks the highest point on the pass. There once was a hermitage here but today the location is distinguished by modern bronze statue of Santiago fighting the wind, a feeling not unknown to me on this trip.

The road was excellent and I was looking forward to a fast descent. The miles rolled on and after an hour or so I looked ahead and in the distance I could see what looked like a large lake in the valley but as I approached I discovered that in fact it was thick fog. I was approaching Triacastela, according to my map, and after a few more minutes I rolled right into the fog. It was immediately obvious that to proceed would be insanely dangerous as I could only see about a foot in front of me. No car would ever see me if one came (rather unlikely) but I would have to ride at a walking pace to be sure that I would stay on the road! I decided that discretion would be the better part of valour and turned around and rode the 50 feet out of the fog.

To my delight, I emerged right next to a cafe-bar that I had noticed on the way into the fog. I leaned the bike against the front wall and went inside to discover I was the only customer. Early Sunday morning was clearly not the happening time in Galicia but no matter: I was dry and I could relax and have breakfast. The choice was pretty limited so once again I had a Tortilla Frances, an omelette on a baguette, along with a cup of hot chocolate. As I warmed up, the fog began to disipate and by the time I had finished my meal it had almost completely disappeared. As I went outside I realized I was about to enjoy a beautiful day.

The road took me on a smooth descent through the lifting fog, along a river gorge and soon I found myself at the monastery of Samos. This was established in the 6th Century and grew in prestige and power, holding an important place in Galician religious life. The monastery became so wealthy that it was actually sacked by several times by pirates in the early Middle Ages. Benedictine monks were brought to Samos in 922 and in the 12th Century it became part of the Cluniac network. At its height it controlled 200 towns, 105 churches and 300 monasteries. The main building, which features an 18th Century baroque facade, is distinguished by the cockleshell motif of the Camino and has undergone many changes to the recent day, including destruction of its library by fire in 1951. It continues to serve as a monastery.

Close to the monastery, in a small park, stands a tiny chapel that was constructed in the 9th or 10th Century for Mozarabic refugees who had come to Samos from the south. These were Christians living in the parts of Spain occupied since 711 by Muslims as second-class citizens. In times of less religious tolerance, many of them fled to the mountainous regions of Northern Spain for safety and brought their customs, dating back to Visigothic times, and their liturgy with them. The Mozarabs, who admired many aspects of Islamic culture, claimed that Jesus was not divine but actually the adopted son of God, which much have made them popular with the locals in Samos. The constant movement of people is a feature of Spanish history in spite of its current static nature.

After Samos I continued to follow the river gorge, now along LU 633, and after 12 kms of riding I soon found myself in the small town of Sarria. This small town was the site of a minor pre-Roman settlement but grew primarily as a pilgrimage waystop. There are a few fine old buildings remaining, although the castle that once dominated the town was turned into building materials. Of particular interest was that the day I cycled into town was Corpus Christi and the main streets were all filled with designs made from flowers and coloured sand.

Corpus Christi is a feast celebrating the Holy Eucharist. In Catholic terms this relates to transubstantiation, or the element of communion involving wine and bread as representative of Christ's body. It appears to be celebrated on a Thursday in some areas and on Sundays in others. As a non-religious person I am not completely clear on this whole concept but everyone in Sarria was involved and walking around, admiring the designs. I got off my bicycle and joined them, and when I passed the rather boring modern church I saw several musicians preparing to go in. One of them, a teenage boy, was carrying bagpipes, a traditional Galician instrument.

On the outskirts of Sarria stands the Iglesia de San Salvador, which has Romanesque features although much of the interior dates to the 14th Century. I got off the bike to take a photograph and as I did so an old man came out. He seemed delighted to see me and was very keen to stamp my credencia. We went into the church and looked around, he cheerfully going on in some kind of Spanish that I understand almost nothing of. Everyone was obviously at the new church in town since we were all alone. He went to a little desk and took out a rubber stamp and with an almost-Herculean effort he stamped the credenica, making an imprint so faint I could barely read it in spite of all his effort. He cheerfully waved goodbye as I left Sarria, heading ever westwards.

Although I attempted to follow the narrow dirt path, at this point, my path diverged from the historical pilgrimage route as I continued along the paved road, C 535, towards Paradela. From Sarria to my evening's destination of Portomarín was 24 kms but there actually was not a great deal to see along this stretch. Galicia is pretty empty in places and the villages, such as there are, seem to have only a handful of houses. Traffic was not very heavy and I made good progress, soon crossing a huge bridge over the Río Miño and entering Portomarín. This town's origins were pre-Roman and it had strategic importance at one time: the bridge had been attacked, destroyed and rebuilt numerous times since the 9th Century. But it served primarily as a pilgrimage waystop. The emergence of Lugo, only 30 kms to the north, with its highway connections meant that Portomarín shrivelled, cut off from commerical activity. Apparently it was not even reachable by wheeled traffic until 1919!

Portomarín immediately struck me as looking a bit odd compared to the other towns I had seen on my travels. The main street had arcades with a vague Wild West feel and the streets were all wider than what I had been used to. It turned out that in 1956 a large hydroelectric dam had been begun futher south on the Río Miño and the old town was permanently flooded after its monuments were dismanteld and relocated. In 1962 the new town of Portomarín was completed on the west bank of the river.

I found a little hotel and after attempting to communicate in crypto-Spanish discovered that the pleasant lady at the front desk spoke fluent German so arrangements became very easy. I unpacked my panniers and, as usual rearranged all my gear and then had a welcome shower. I went for a walk in the town in the blazing late afternoon heat and found a grocery store where I put together my usual pilgrim's meal of bread and cheese.

The primary monument in Portomaín is the Iglesia de San Juan, which is now the parish church of St. Nicholas. This is a massive church/fortress thing that was occupied by the Knights of St. John. It was constructed in the late 12th Century and is extensively decorated, which is a bit unusual for a Romanesque building. Its four towers feature battlements, so after prayer you could go upstairs and dump boiling oil on your enemies outside, I guess. The west facade has a fine arch with an impressive rose window. It was certainly unlike any other church I had seen on the Camino.

The Santiago Road: The Ninth Day

Saturday, June 1, 2002

Rabanal del Camino to O Cebreiro
94.92 km, total for trip 778.76 km

After the previous night’s pouring rain, I was relieved to see that the skies had cleared and I was greeted by bright blue skies and cold morning mountain air. After another modest breakfast, I continued my trip northwestwards, still going along the quiet LE 142. The road, which had originally been built by the Romans, was in good condition and climbed very gently. On either side were markers for snowplows, indicative of the kind of weather that this mountain region gets in winter. After 6 kms or so I came to the ruined 2000 year-old village of Foncebadón, where there are only some piles of local slate to indicate where the houses once were.

A short distance beyond a more serious climb began and I passed a surprising number of pilgrims walking towards the summit. The Marinoni and I were in synch and rolled swiftly up to the top of the pass of Foncebadón, crossing the top of Monte Irago at 1504 m. The summit was marked with a large iron cross, the Cruz de Fierro, and a huge pile of rocks. This is, I think, the highest point on the Camino de Santiago. The Celts had marked passes with stone cairns (in fact, the word cairn is itself Celtic), and the Romans had also carried on this custom. Modern pilgrims leave stones at the top of the rock pile but I had not brought one with me, considering that I already had enough stuff to schlep across Spain, but from the summit I had a fine, if daunting, view of the mountains of Galicia ahead.

I began the descent, passing through more villages. El Acebo was not much more than a single street and a church, although there is a monument on the edge of the settlement to a German cyclist, Heinrich Krause, who died here of a heart attack in 1987 at the age of 70. Historically, a lot of pilgrims had never come back from the trip but it was strange to think of it happening so recently. And ironic that somebody would die of a heart attack on the descent...

The road was now in rather poor condition, with potholes everywhere. Luckily there was no traffic so I was able to pick my way through the least rough sections. However, the road became quite steep and I was forced to break heavily to prevent the bike from getting away on the rough road since my speed would instantly jump to 50 km/h if I relented. At one point I stopped to take a photograph and let the aluminum rims cool down as I did not want to run the risk of a flat caused by excessive heat!

The next village of note was Molinaseca which I passed at high speed, tearing down the superb empty road, with its excellent curves, at 60 km/h. The village sits across a gorge cut by the Río Meruelo and two ancient bridges remain. It was another important pilgrim waystop but not as important my next stop, the large market town of Ponferrada.

Originally owing its wealth the major mineral deposits, Ponferrada was already ancient when the Romans added it to their empire. The Visigoths destroyed it around 456 and the Moors did it again in the 9th Century but it was soon after reconquered and, in 1178, at the height of the pilgrimage, was entrused to the Knights Templar as a base to protect the pilgrim roads. Subsequently it became an important market town, with a well-integrated Jewish community, resisting segregation until an agent was sent by Queen Isabel in 1884 to enforce conformity with royal decrees.

The city became something of a backwater, although the railroad reached it in 1882, but boomed with the development of local collieries in the 1940s. These were pretty well abandoned by the 1980s and the town, which has a population of 65,000, survives today primarily on agriculture and tourism connected to the Camino. In fact, there are ancient Roman gold mines nearby that have been designated a UNESCO World Heritage site.

What is most notable about the town today, besides the very attractive Municipal Square and not much else, is the Templar castle, which was constructed very rapidly (between 1218 and 1282) over the ruins of a pre-Roman fortress. It was the seat of the Grand Master of Castile (now there’s a title for you!). Unfortunately, the Knights Templar were disbanded as a result of various scandals and political machinations in 1312 and the castle was fought over by several local noble families embroiled in dynastic wars. It was finally confiscated for the Crown in 1507, and then eventually sold to the Marqués de Villafranca in 1558. It actually was attacked during the 19th Century Peninsular War. Afterwards, with no military function any longer, it was used as a quarry for other buildings in the town. It has been undergoing restoration and it is very impressive in its dimensions, covering some 16,000 square meters. However, it appears to me to be suffering severely from over-restoration, looking more Disney than Templar. After a few decades of aging this will probably improve its appearance. Jousting tournaments are held at the castle and the banners flying on the parapets were wonderful to see under the cloudless Spanish skies.

My route took me alongside the Río Valcarce to Villafranca del Bierzo, which is situated at the west end of the fertile Bierzo basin. The name is interesting as it translates out to "Foreigners’ Town", owing its growth to the increase in pilgrimage traffic in the early 12th Century. But nothing lasts forever and the place was decimated by plague in 1589. The river flooded in the 18th Century and wrecked a good deal of the place, and then the English made a mess of the place in 1808. However, much of Villafranca’s Medieval and Renaissance character has been preserved and cycling into town was quite dramatic as one rises up from the river on a series of terraced inclines. There are three impressive churches in the main square.

But I was eager for the road ahead and soon the way began to go up again. I stopped for something to drink at a store and hotel near Terabadelo. A cute German girl was working there and she seemed very happy to have someone chat to her for a while. But pilgrims have itineraries to meet. However, if I had known what was coming I might have dallied a while longer...

The road began to pitch up pretty seriously now, and a highway ran parallel to my little road, sometimes crossing it, and not doing much for the atmosphere. I was getting hot and tired and the road showed no sign of relenting. Annoying flies began to buzz around my face as I ground my way slowly onwards. I was hurting on what was the hardest stretch of road on the trip so far and it was no surprise that in pilgrimage times the area had been infested with bandits. Although still part of León the architecture and culture are Galician. I had excellent views of the mountains ahead, which I would have enjoyed–the countryside is open and brushy, with heather and occasional stands of scrub oak--if I was not in such pain from the climb and if I was not also concerned about the weather. I thought of Herr Krause and his heart attack with some sympathy. The temperature had dropped and the sky had become dark, suggesting that we were going to be hit with another massive rainstorm. I was really at the limit when I finally crested the last ridge and came into the village of O Cebreiro, at 1293 m.

My inn in O Cebreiro

It was pretty cold here on top and the place, all dark slate, looked dreary. Interestingly, a number of the buildings were circular and had straw roofs. It was clear that the place was surviving because of the pilgrim traffic and I was very worried that I would not be able to find a place to stay but the second place I came to, a tavern, had rooms available and I checked in, exhausted. Shortly afterwards it began to rain heavily.

I had to go outside and in through another day to get something to eat and by the time I left to go back to my room the rain was coming down so hard I was soaked in the short time I needed to just go around the building. Soon the rain was joined by thunder and lightning so violent it seemed to coming from just outside my window.

My day had been a good one, for the most part. I had seen a great deal, ridden just under 100 km and not gotten lost. On the other hand, I was completely exhausted. I had expected that the Roncesvalles Pass would be the hardest section of the Camino but I had been very mistaken.

The Santiago Road: An Interlude in León

May 20, 2002

As I rode into the city, I was impressed with how hot it was as the sunshine reflected off of the white stone. I quickly found myself in a pedestrian area, which eventually turned into a street named after Generalissimo Franco, the first I had noticed on my travels. I walked my bicycle into a square and admired the magnificent white cathedral but, more immediately, I saw a drugstore across the square and I hurried over. One of the problems of riding around the countryside in hot dry weather under a blazing sun is chapped lips and mine were so bad that they were bleeding. My Spanish is limited as it is but the pharmacist understood with my mixture of French/Spanish/hand gestures and I purchased what must have been the world’s single most expensive tube of lip balm. However, it was worth the money as it worked immediately and I had instant relief.

No cars in León!

Lips back in order, the next thing was to figure out where I might stay. After the refugio in Sahagun and the serial snorers I really wanted to get a good night’s sleep so I wandered up and down the streets looking for a small hotel. It appears that there are no small hotels in León, at least in the old city, and I was hot, sweaty and discouraged. Then I saw a small sign that read “Hostal San Martín” and I thought that sounded promising. I went down a small street a few blocks to the Plaza Torres de Omaña and found the Hostal. It was on the third floor, so I brought my bike inside and chained it to the railing before climbing the stairs with my gear.

The couple operating the hotel did not really speak much English. The place looked very clean and cool and I was pretty exhausted by this point. I was quite shocked when they told me that the room would be 50 Euros but at this point I was beyond caring and did not want to look around any more. The communal bathroom was in the hall next to the small room and was quite wonderful, with lots of marble and several big showers.

I unpacked my panniers and organized my gear, taking some of my dirty laundry into the bathroom and cleaning it as best as I could. This worked quite well since my room had a little balcony and everything dried almost immediately in the blazing sun. I took a long wonderful shower and then napped for an hour, awakening completely refreshed and ready to see the town. The only thing left before going out was to enquire about a laundromat where I could clean some of the larger items. My touring shorts were getting kind of stiff and I was pretty anxious to look after them. The hotel people could not comprehend what I needed at first but then they understand and told me about a laundromat which was near the university, several miles away. But then they were very nice and offered to put my touring shorts in with the hotel laundry since that was all I had. When I came back from my walk around León they were all done and I had nice fresh clothing for the next few days. The Spanish are not well set-up for travellers wanting to do laundry and it is not practical to bring clothing for two weeks straight when cycling.

All practical matters attended to, I was free to wander the streets of León for several hours. The sun was not so intense now in the late afternoon and I was able to go back and enjoy the cathedral, which is a magnificent Gothic structure, the fourth church on the site. It was begun around 1205 and is apparently a 2/3 scale replica of the cathedral in Rheims, France. It was pretty well finished by 1302, although there were some alterations made in the 15th Century for the more modern taste of that later time. The stained glass windows are particularly striking, and apparently the León cathedral has more glass and less stone than any other cathedral in Spain.



Stepping out of the cool gloom of the cathedral back into the streets of the city, I walked around, admiring the impressive remains of the Roman city wall, which was originally constructed in the 3rd or 4th Century and was destroyed and rebuilt many times. The current section dates only to the 11th Century! Next to it is the Basilica de San Isidoro, an 11th Century Romanesque complex, which was built to house the bones of San Isidoro, which were brought into León in 1063. The king of Castile and León, Fernando I, had harassed the Muslims in Extramadura to the extent that they offered him the saint’s bones, not having any gold as their own kingdom was in decline. Pretty lucky that they had some spare saintly relics around...










The church was expanded later in the 11th and 12th Centuries but otherwise was not changed much except by the collapse of its central apse in 1513 and damage caused by the French invasion and by a lightning strike and fire in 1811. As I walked around, I saw several tall columns, and on one of them a family of storks had a huge nest. The baby storks were being fed and I watched them for a while. Nobody else paid the slightest attention.

Another very interesting building in León but quite modern in construction if not appearance is the Casa de Botines, an example of the work of the celebrated Catalan architect Antonio Gaudí. Constructed in 1892, it looks like a grey stone Gothic/Art Nouveau fortress but was meant to be a commercial building, housing a department store on the ground floor and three floors of apartments above.

I spent the remainder of the day sightseeing, enjoying the carless streets and exploring the hidden squares. I even walked past the main refugio in the city, but was happy to finally return to the Hostal San Martín and get a good night’s sleep.

The Santiago Road: The Seventh Day

The Puenta de Canto

Day 7–Thursday, May 30, 2002 Sahagun to Léon
64.96 km, total for trip 609.69 km

At 6:00 am, the first pilgrims were gathering their packs and crashing around in the refugio as I tried to get some sleep but it was no use. We let most of them clear out to begin their walk in the cold morning air and assembled our own stuff without any hurry. We knew that within an hour we would have passed the walkers and left them behind as even a slow cyclist will easily overtake the most determined of those on foot.

We were out on the road by 7:00 am, heading westwards as ever. We passed through an impressive arched gate leaving town and then crossed a remarkable bridge, the Puenta de Canto, over the Río Cea. This structure was commissioned by Alfonso VI in 1085 and was the only bridge across the river until 1992.

On the shore of the river across from the bridge is the legendary site of a battlefield where Charlemagne’s force was reputed to have met a Moorish army. Some of the Christians stuck their lances into the ground the night before the battle and when they awoke the next morning they found that the lances had grown bark and leafy branches. This miracle was not enough to stop Charlemagne’s forces from being annihilated, however.

Bercianos del Real Camino

The route, running parallel to the A231 highway, was not terribly interesting. We rode through the village of Bercianos del Real Camino, which had been given to the monks of Sahagún in 966, and continued on, passing concrete benches and picnic tables, and a gravel walking path for the pilgrims. The road took us under and then over the highway at Grañeros and into El Burgo Ranero, a town with a pond and some colourful houses but little to recommend it. El Burgo is an agricultural town on the great plain of wheat of Castile, but it did not look very prosperous.

The road was empty and the whole area a bit desolate as we proceeded through the villages of Villamoratiel de las Matas and Grajalejo de las Matas, before turning right onto the N601, a busy road with, luckily, a wide enough shoulder for us to ride on. Four kilometers along the road we came to Mansilla de las Mulas, a small town that was originally established by the Romans. It was famous from the 10th Century, when it was retaken from the Moors, for its mule market; hence the latter half of its name. It was a major commercial centre for the region and still maintains the major part of its medieval walls.

Spain: the open road

The next 14 kms. passed uneventfully as we rode through the gently rolling countryside, crossing two rivers and passing through Villamoros de Mansilla, Puente de Villarente and Valdelafuente before rolling into Léon through the traditional route via the Barrio de Santa Anna in what was becoming the uncomfortable heat of midday. At this point Max took his leave and headed westwards as I decided to explore Léon and relax for the remainder of the day. And see about getting laundry done somehow.

The Santiago Road: The Sixth Day

Max, ready to roll

Wednesday, May 29, 2002
Castrojeriz to Sahagun 90.62 km
total for trip 544.73 km



The refugio was dark, dark, dark and not so warm. I was sound asleep when I suddenly was awoken by the sound of chanting. It was a men’s choir singing something medieval and as I began to wake up I had the strange idea that I was still asleep and the music was a dream. It was quite beautiful but so unexpected. Our host was playing a recording to put us in the proper pilgrim frame of mind, I suppose. We all stumbled out of our beds and the few lights in the refugio were turned on as everyone–probably about eight of us–began to pack up our gear. Once that was done (I was in no mood for a cold shower as I was already cold enough), we trooped upstairs for breakfast. This was also rather monastic–a large cup of milk coffee and an apple. But you cannot really expect much for the token amount we paid for our board and I felt very much in a medieval frame of mind anyway. Everyone was quite cheerful, considering it was just after dawn, and we outside into the cold air we went.

At 6:30 am there was not much going on in Castrojeriz, needless to say. We wanted to take some photos but it was still too dark. We rode around the town in the cold morning air and headed south, where we found the ruins of the convent of San Francisco, which was, according to my guide book, “built over the former palace and gardens of Pedro el Cruel.” Now there’s a great name (although apologists tried to change it to “Pedro the Lawful”)and it turned out he was indeed a pretty nasty fellow. After betraying friends and foe equally, he ended up being murdered in 1369.

We rode back into Castrojeriz now that the light was much better and we looked at various churches, although of course at that time of day nothing was open. We were particularly impressed by the Iglesia de Santiago de los Caballeros, which was ruined but featured carved skulls to warn passers-by of death. Nearby was a fine statue of Santiago as a pilgrim, one of many we were to come across on this trip, and I took a nice picture of Max on his bicycle in front of it.

The road out of town crosses over the Río Odra on the San Miguel Bridge, which has some arches still from the 12 Century and then proceeds on what was a causeway built by the Romans across the marshy flatlands. We climbed a small hill and had a fine view of Castrojeriz behind us and ahead and to the left was the village of Castrillo de Matajudios, the birthplace of the 16th Century composer Antonio de Cabezon. But more interesting was the village of Itero del Camino, which had a charming 18th Century church, built from the rubble of the castle which had been constructed when the village was fortified in the Middle Ages to defend the wheat-rich region around it. Only a square tower remains from the castle and it was not in the best condition, albeit picturesque.

Max and I were very impressed with the wide-open vista. There were green fields on both sides of the ride, gently rolling as far as the eye could see. This wide agricultural plain was named by the Visigoths, who conquered Spain in the 5th Century, the Campi Gothorum, and it remains known today as either the Campos Góticos or the Tierra de Campos.

We passed another old village, Boabdilla del Camino, which dates back before the 10th Century at least, and rode alongside the Canal de Castilla. In the 1750s the Spanish began to construct a series of canals in the Tierra de Campos but by the time they were done five decades later railroads had supplanted water transport for heavy goods. Nonetheless, the Canal de Castilla was valuable for irrigation and power, roles which it continues to fulfill today.

We came to the outskirts of Frómista and stopped by an impressive series of locks. Although it is in the centre of the breadbasket of the Iberian Peninsula, it suffered economic decline after the expulsion of the Jews in 1492 and the loss of its role as an important regional market. The arrival of the canal in 1773 revived the area and it is again a prosperous agricultural centre.

There is not much remaining of old Frómista as it was mainly built in adobe since stone was scarce. However, it does boast the Iglesia de San Martín, a very striking church that was constructed beginning in 1066. It was meant to be something special on the Camino and was designed as a reduced-scale replica of the Cathedral in Jaca. The stone was brought in at great expense and the building is impressively decorated on the outside. We went inside and looked at the interior. It was rather simple but this may have been a result of later restoration. There was a nice 16th Century statue of Santiago Pelegrino to cheer us onwards.

In Frómista we saw much larger numbers of people than we had seen previously on the Camino, including several busloads of tourists. There were quite a few cyclists gathered around the church and I talked with an older couple. They were Dutch, and were riding enormous heavy black Dutch bicycles with full camping gear. To my astonishment, they had actually ridden all the way from Holland, taking more than two months already to reach Frómista. They said that it had been a pretty hard trip since it had rained more or less non-stop for about six weeks en route. They looked at my lightweight bicycle and the man voiced concerns about its durability for the Camino. I had to give them credit for their dedication, but I silently doubted if I would have been crazy enough to ride over the Roncesvalles Pass on a fifty pound bike with another fifty pounds of stuff on it.

We found a small store where we stocked up on our usual bread and cheese and fruit and drank some fruit juice while sitting on the curb. Frómista already seemed like the Big City after the places I had been through, and the road was definitely busier now. We travelled northwest now along the P980, an excellent road, passing several small villages. The traffic became quite a bit heavier as we came to Carrión de los Condes, at the intersection of P980 and the N120, an old friend we had least seen near Burgos.

Carrión de los Condes has quite a long and interesting history, having been occupied at various times by the Romans, the Visigoth and the Muslims, the last arriving around 713. During the Middle Ages it was one of the wealthiest and most important towns in north central Spain. The town appears in the epic about El Cid, a famous general from whom the Kings of Spain still trace their descent, and was described as the home of a nest of villainous counts who married and mistreated the Cid’s daughters. Hence the “de los Condes,” which means “of the Counts.”

The town features numerous examples of Castilian Romanesque architecture and we rode slowly by the Iglesia de Santa Mariá del Camino and the Iglesia de Santiago before crossing the Río Carríon, which was totally dry, over an impressive arched bridge before passing an old monastery, the Monasterio de San Zoila, founded in the 10th Century and which owned most of the town by the 13th. After a long decline, it was turned into a parador, one of the luxury hotels to be found in historic Spanish towns and villages.

We rode out of Carrión de los Condes and rather than follow N120 we decided to stick to the original pilgrims’ route, a path over crushed reddish gravel. The weather had been excellent but now we found ourselves in a treeless, desolate plain, with grain fields lining both sides of the Camino and the sun beating down ferociously. It was around 2:30 pm, the hottest time of the day, and as we rolled down the dusty road I felt sorry for the pilgrims on foot. For us the hard road, perhaps 30 kms, would be a reasonable ride but on foot it would take a good part of the day.

In addition to pilgrims on foot, we passed a French couple with a donkey, loaded up with their gear. I felt pretty confident on the loose gravel, but Max was slowing down so I said that I would cruise on ahead. I stopped for a cold drink at Calzadilla de la Cueza and waited for Max. As we continued, the road became paved again and I picked up the tempo a bit. I told him that I would go on to Sahagún, our next planned stop, and make sure that we had two places reserved before the walkers arrived instead of facing the situation we did in Castrogeriz. With my thin tires I was much faster on pavement than he was, and so I set off.

It was here that I discovered what European Union money can do. I was back on the N120, which was quite magnificent here. It was four lanes wide, with a green space dividing the directions and absolutely no traffic of any kind. I rode perhaps 15 kms on the freshly-paved stretch and was not passed by a single vehicle. I could not understand this since the road was clearly designed for heavy traffic but then I looked to the north and saw, perhaps 3 kms away, a limited access highway with lots of trucks on it. I was very grateful to the taxpayers of the EU who had funded two different roads going in the same direction and provided me with my own private highway, for at least a few hours.

I rolled happily into Sahagún, hot and sweaty but pleased with our progress. I found the signs directing me to the refugio quite easily but everything was locked up and would be for another hour. There was a rather modern statute of a pilgrim out front and I leaned my bike against the wall and read for a while until the door was unlocked and I could go in and reserve our spaces. Being so early, I was able to go and have a shower and find some good spots for us.

The refugio was the former Iglesia de la Trinidad and had been converted to become a gigantic dormitory. After locking up the bike on the ground floor and taking off the panniers, I walked up a big set of steps with several landings and found myself in a large room with a very high, vaulted ceiling and beds everywhere. There was a kitchen area as well as a few showers but it all seemed a bit cramped.

After my shower I waited for Max to arrive and a large number of pilgrims came in, hot and dusty from their long walk. The showers raised the humidity in the place and then some of the pilgrims, who I am certain were Danish, began to cook and the wretched smell of frying pork filled the whole place.

Max was pleased that I had booked us in but very soon after his arrival the place looked totally full. There were probably 200-250 beds and all were taken. After he cleaned up we went outside and looked around Sahagún, finding a grocery store and not much else, although the town was fairly large.

We sat in front of the refugio, wrote our postcards and chatted for a while. Max was missing his girlfriend in Barcelona and anxious to get to Santiago pretty quickly whereas I was starting to realize that as I became stronger and stronger each day on the bike I was covering distance much faster than I had planned. If I kept up the current rate of speed, I would arrive in Santiago much too early since I had a bus reservation for a particular day in order to get back to Bayonne for my flight home to Berlin. I decided that I would spend the next day in León and he was planning to ride through, so we planned to go as far as León together and then split up. This happens a lot on the Camino; I had already travelled with a Frenchman, a German, a Belgian and now an Argentinian.

Sleeping was not a great success. The pilgrims who were walking were always dead tired at the end of the day, even when it was not as hot as it was today. By 9 pm everyone was sweating on top of their bunks, the smell of greasy pork in the air, and as the first pilgrims fell asleep the snoring began. At first this caused some laughter from those still awake but we soon realized that the effect was amplified by the high arched ceiling and eventually the noise of the snoring began deafening. I had not planned on this but I began to realize that the refugios, while really cheap and part of the Camino experience, were perhaps not really for me. I would take my chances in León the next day and see what other accommodation I might find.