I’d covered much ground on that first day, and now had aspirations to a more vigorous Camino. Just like a proper pilgrim.
So over that bridge…
Through the winter campos…
…and crumbly pueblos.
On the approach to Cirauqui, a rocky outcrop whose name means “nest of vipers”, a strolling grandmother was so delighted with her charge that she could not stop singing and dancing around his pram. I could hear her from a kilometre away. I met little Tomas after retrieving a soft toy he’d dropped. No gurgling or giggling: just the blithe serenity of a prince for whom constant affection, attention and entertainments never cease, nor ever shall cease. And a good thing, too, Tomas. You might make a fine dawdler.
This is supposed to be one of those parts of Navarre with only one official language, but I neglected to to check if the street signs were in Spanish with no Basque. The real fun in Cirauqui is its luscious Roman bridge.
I’d call it a romantic ruin, but like so many things Roman, like that extraordinary aqueduct in Segovia, it still works just fine. Further along there’s a fine medieval bridge over the Rio Salado.
Still hoping to make Estella, just like a real pilgrim, I pressed on.
Mel Gibson’s been writing on walls again!
I know this crud is supposed to be anti-Zionist, not anti-Jewish etc etc…but here in Spain it makes me wonder…
I wonder if, all those centuries ago, Their Catholic Majesties had kept a few more Jews and expelled a few more doctrinal purists whether Spain might have not resolved its great historical lack: a viable middle class.
Soon I arrived in the small town of Lorca, and happened to notice that an albergue was open…something not guaranteed at this time of year. Hmmm…
Thus it was that, after less than fourteen kilometres, I found myself loafing in an empty but warm dormitorio.
Back in my groove!