So, first things first. Cardoon, heard of it? Like ever?
This or something like this is what it looks like, and apparently, they eat it in these parts. Spanish thistle, yeah? Tastes like chicken. Supposedly it’s a bit like artichoke, but not quite, and I can assure you, it tastes nothing like. But it’s a traditional Navarran stew’s main ingredient, along with some bacon. After a full day of walking I’ll eat you and your hat, if there’s nothing else, so thistle it was, served by young American volunteers at Sansol’s finest establishment Casa de Sansol.
It’s a grand house, with a gigantic staircase, restored by a couple of gentlemen, who, apparently, also ate cardo a la Navarra (the aforementioned stew) every night.
Anyway, this is a good place to have almost to ourselves. There are 8 pilgrims in total (plus two Asians who do not want to mix with anybody or each other and remain in shadows. They could actually also be three or fifteen, we only see one at a time).
The only salvation these days is getting up at five, then only the last hour or two of the day are unbearably hot.
Los Arcos was a weird little place, where they can lock up entire streets:
Seriously they have this gate everywhere, also at the end of the main street. Maybe they’re just fond of locking up things, there is one open bar here, which is where we had our lunch and reconnected with Camille and Stephen, two young people from France who are actually walking from France, I didn’t get exactly where from, but there’s a traditional route, which is twice (!) as long as ours. Stephen is carrying his tent with him, and they try to combine one of them staying in the tent, wildbivuaking with the other staying in an albergue nearby or, when that doesn’t work, it looks like Stephen lets Camille use the tent while he’s sleeping under the skies. They are great.
A lot (like, a lot) of this stage is a countryside road between fields of some cereal, it’s dusty and hot, and long, and monotonous.
People get acutely sensitive to, like, literally everything here, it would seem. From the heat or from being a pilgrim, who knows? This one lady who looks Dutch says she is very concerned about someone shouting, and it looks like she’s already on the phone with somebody asking what she should do. I cynically say that someone is probably shouting at their sheep as we plough through (I had heard some noise, but it didn’t sound like someone in distress, I hope I’m right)
Should I write about Sev from Ireland? At least that I don’t think I ever met a person who would manage to tell his whole life situation within 120 seconds after he’d entered the room. He’s quite philosophical and deep, as well. Sev is also pretty great.
Good night you all great people.
