. . . leaving Granon in the dark, a couple of stars indicating high, thin cloud, a hint of pink in the East . . . head down the track, its beige surface picking up enough light to guide me . . . first village close. . . Vilarta . . . camino signs missing though . . . the thing about camino signage is, there is usually more than enough when you are on it, but when you stray off it, nada . . . I strayed off it, the pre-dawn time so rich, when everything is possible . . . wander around the small village . . . looking for yellow arrows or someone to ask . . . a small dog greets me, but no sign of its human . . . come to a road, LR 12, I think . . . a little bus glides by like a ghost . . . follow that, it has a driver . . . turns into the village and back towards Logrono before I can ask . . . a car starts up, I ask the driver . . . he indicates the direction, but my Spanish is inadequate to understand the detail . . . anyway, if the bus is heading East, to Logrono, I am going the other way, because I was there a while back . . . and Santiago is West . . . soon the road swings South . . . a track available North . . . my mind says the track will take me back to the known camino, the journey wants South . . . a straight kilometre and then right, westwardish . . . I am off route, checking by the sunrise . . . trusting instinct . . . a concrete road off west . . . follow that . . . the view opens up in the coming light . . . three villages, no idea what they are . . . down the road, three deer. . . we watch each other for a while . . .when I move towards them, they head up to their woods . . . three birds fly from the brambles, head west . . . off to the North, the main road to Burgos . . . up to the closest village, Bascunana, a fine looking church wants its photo taking . . . if church photography is your thing, the camino is the place . . . along the way, a rough arrow, informal directions to the lost route . . . I'm not the first one to come this way, lost . . . ask a local the best way . . . you can go North, then West or South then West . . . and this arrow just going West . . . yes that too . . . the shortest? just West, though not as easy . . .
. . . next is Viloria and the familiar yellow arrows, blue and yellow signs . . . rather confusing, since the countdown marker tells me I have 21 km further to go than when I started . . . I trust my sense of direction, head towards the main road . . . the way goes alongside all the way to Belorado, which I reach after three and a half hours, my diversion having been not only entertaining, but also around the same distance as the official way. . .
. . . at Belorado, call into the tourist info, some indication of open albergues helpful . . . a woman gives me details in English. . . what's your name? Brenda . . . oh, English . . . no it's Irish, I'm from Holland . . . I mention the snow forecast . . . don't be afraid, she says . . . stay here, I am going to the local albergue, it's nice . . . are you on the camino? no, just buying a hat . . . briefly consider her offer, right ankle calling for rest . . . walker wants more exercise, writer wants to record this morning's adventure, addict wants caffeine . . . resist the lure of Brenda, her Dutch courage, find a bar . . . write for a couple of hours . . . tapas for lunch . . . what's that? . . . pig's ear . . . tortilla, olives, calamari then please . . . the television is babbling on . . . the images familiar . . . convergence of crap culture . . . dumbing down . . . interspersed with casual violence . . . muse about the telly free years in Stanhope . . . wonder whether the licence people are still sending threatening letters . . . I refused to comply with their assumption that having a set was the norm, my job to tell them I didn't have one . . . Rachel is less bloody-minded . . .
. . . on to Villafranca . . . a long hop over the mountain to Burgos, or two stages more comfortable . . . steady walking, though listening to my ankle . . . once you start limping the balance changes, other parts join in . . . maybe a rest day needed . . . at the municipal albergue, Francisco has arrived . . . Rosa, the host is welcoming, the rooms large, airy, warm . . . €7 for the night, a kitchen to cook in . . . Francisco shares a washing machine and drier . . . no point doing two half loads . . . discuss shared dinner . . . Joe and Dylan arrive, join in the shopping . . . Francisco organises it: this is common food, €4 each, including a bottle of Rioja . . . other stuff we pay for ourselves . . . all clear and subtly done . . . Joe, Dylan and I are less structured with it, which leaves space for misunderstanding perhaps . . . the money question still intrigues me . . . how it can be allowed to flow, do its job without resistance, all the fears of lack . . . lesson still in progress in Life School . . . and so many stories to help learn it, situations to explore it, live it . . .
. . . a separate post perhaps . . . Rosa says another day is possible, so the rest day option is open (and other places are open in town too) . . . and on FB another possibility altogether . . . let's see what wants to happen . . .
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