. . . a wonderful morning walk from Granon to Belorado . . . around 18km in just over three hours, including a couple of stops to talk to locals . . . when I say "around", it is becoming clear that measurement is really comfortable in Spanish culture . . . probably the road signs are mostly accurate, the camino not . . . the marker at Granon told me there were 555 kms to Santiago . . . after an hour lost wandering westwards, picking up the camino trail signs, a marker in Viloria said 567 . . . my rational mind searched for an explanation: walked in a circle, wrong direction, time travelled . . . and threw out my instinct for West and which way to walk . . . of course the signs, or one of them, had it wrong . . . East is where the sun rises most days . . .
. . . in Spanish the word manana literally means tomorrow; more generally it means sometime in the future . . . camino markers are a bit like that . . .
. . . first some context . . .
. . . one of my private messengers, heart connected, suggested my long and rambling post last rainy Saturday was hard to follow, jumping all over the place . . . maybe better separate by topic, keep them shorter . . . ha, if you think that was rambling, try living in my head sometime . . . but I am going to try . . . maybe throw in some flow of consciousness for variety . . . a glimpse of my mind at work and play, which is most of the time . . . sleep helps and is available soon after lying down at 9 or 10 . . . a blessing for which I am grateful . . . sleep deprivation, insomnia is common and a special form of torture I am told . . .
. . . I digress . . .
. . . arriving in Granon yesterday afternoon, I passed the parochial albergue, hidden in plain sight next to the Christmas tree . . . the journey had another plan for me . . . La Casa de Las Sonrisas . . . the door was open, walked in, nobody around . . . upstairs, reception, two bedrooms . . . chose the front one, a single bed and a bunk . . . dropped the rucksack . . . went exploring . . . back to hear a jigsaw screaming in the back . . . Oliver making something . . . hello . . . hello, is there a bed . . . sure, Ernesto is working on the tree . . . I will fetch him . . . Ernesto arrives . . . hello, find a bed, no pilgrim or national passport needed, no registration . . . we eat together at eight, breakfast in the morning . . . all donativo (which updates a previous post saying only the church albergues did that) . . .
. . . Sonrisas intrigues me . . . reminds me of squatting in Somers Town, behind Kings Cross, back in the 70s . . . are these people philosophers of the camino . . . I wait for fascinating conversation . . . it seems to be privately owned, all is freely offered ( though the pilgrom passport reminds us that donativo does not mean free . . . unless you are going without money, like Albon, Juan . . . or holding on to your €60 . . . )
. . . Oliver and Ernesto are full on with the tree . . . a world record at stake . . . I friend the Casa on FB, later Ernesto sends a friend request . . . we are FB friends, though have not yet had a conversation . . .
. . . Oliver tells me they are putting heating into the Casa soon . . . it's cold . . . wifi is free, but at the bar it's warm and with wifi . . . Francisco comes in . . . he is at the church albergue, a woodburner, cosy, donativo, other pilgrims . . . Henning, but none of the others . . . the host from the church albergue comes in to get internet . . . we philosophise . . . talk about his time in England . . . his radical youth . . . I am tempted to switch, but still intrigued by Sonrisas . . . Ernesto and Oliver come in for a beer, maybe some warmth too . . . they go off to prepare food around 7.45 . . .
. . . I follow, call into the bakery for bread for next day . . . plan to leave before it opens at 8 . . . Ernesto said snow was forecast Friday night . . . best get to Burgos before then . . .
. . . at the Casa the table is set for one . . . a plate of shredded lettuce with cheese, bread, olive oil . . . Ernesto says he is making eggs . . . they come with sausages . . . whoops. . . an implicit assumption that this place would be vegetarian . . . another one for students of Don Miguel Ruiz - make no assumptions . . . I eat, it's enough . . . think about checking the tree . . . probably warmer outside . . . door locked . . . back to writing . . . about solitude . . . review previous posts on Life School, planning, unknowns . . . a knock at the door, someone looking for Ernesto . . .try to open it . . . slide the bolt back and forth, inadvertantly locking it . . . find four blankets, go to bed, fall asleep . . . woken by banging on the door . . . no idea of the time . . . Ernesto . . . not happy about the bolt . . . speaking English, but not hearing my attempt to explain . . . half asleep and keen to return to my nest I do my best . . . wake early, write again . . . skip shower, too cold for that . . . table set for breakfast, last night's bread, jam . . . Ernesto brings coffee . . .
I consider the donation . . . since there has been no heart connection . . . the measuring mind gets to work . . . what's expected . . . what was offered . . . what was it worth . . . the range rationally is between 5 and 20 . . . I did donate my scavenged vegetables, but no idea if they want them . . . and a couple of biscuits from the bakery . . . the journey makes the decision . . . check the wallet, coins are out of the question . . . no fives, so the options are 10 or 20 . . . put 10 in the box . . . still no idea what's going on here . . . maybe I don't need to understand it . . . maybe FB will follow up . . .
. . . off into the dark at 7.20 . . . Life School ready to deliver some lessons . . . which is another post . . . the daily one, for later, when I land at my next albergue . . . coffee in Belorado has been productive . . . some information on the coming stages . . . two coffees . . . tapas . . . options: albergue here, push on another 10 km . . . it is nearly 1.30 . . . another two hours will take me within a day of Burgos, to Villafranca at the foot of the mountain/hill . . . but that's for manana . . .
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