THE AFTERNOON OF THE LONGEST DAY

The afternoon of that day is something of a blur to me now. It was sunny and hot. The camino followed minor roads and streets, up and down, through little barrios, where nothing much was going on. It was pleasant enough, but I wasn't really paying attention. I had filled my water bottles in Noja, but by the time I got to San Miguel de Meruelo, only about 7km away, I had to stop and refill them in a bar, and have a coke. I got a bit turned around heading out of the village, so stopped in at another bar, where they were closed but getting ready for evening. In this bar, the owner had been to Canada, even to Kingston! So we talked about Fort Henry, which he found impressive. He asked if I was going to Guemes, and sang the praises of Ernesto. I think he called him "muy macho"!! (Actually, on second thought, I think he said "muy majo".  Magic makes a better fit).

The camino passed by a neighbourhood called Solorga, where the road was lined with sixteenth century houses, still happily lived in. They were beautiful. One had a wide stone archway, somewhat incongruously filled with one of those rubber dust curtains so popular in Spain, and I longed to take a picture, but the householders were about, and it felt like an invasion of privacy, so I didn't. I could kick myself now.

I was really flagging. I knew I "ought" to go and see the Romanesque church at Bareyo, off the camino and up a hill, but I just couldn't make my feet go that way. I was already out of water; AGAIN. I hoped for a shop in Gancedo, but it looked like nothing but modern suburbs from the road. Instead, I took a chance on the offices of Camping Molinos, where the young lady behind the desk acted as if pilgrims were always barging in, begging for water. Well, maybe they were. I downed one can of water, and filled two more. It was getting to be late afternoon, and I still had the best part of four hilly Spanish kilometres to go.

As I rested by a wall, soaked to the skin, I noticed with horror that my right ankle was starting to puff up. I'd seen enough suffering pilgrims on the last Camino to realize that this was not a good sign. Overheating and too much pavement led to these kinds of injuries, and the prescription was rest, and icing. That last bit was out of the question right now, but I still needed to cool down. I amused myself by photographing yellowish lichens on the wall.

Eventually, I got the gumption to get going for the last push into Guemes. Well, I'm not sure you can actually get "into" Guemes, which seems to be dotted all over a funny little round valley. At the far end of it, is La Cabana del Abuelo Peuto, Ernesto's place!

The sun showed no signs of letting up. I noticed that the ermita was open and I longed for the dark and cool of an ancient building. I entered without hesitation.