13 May back to Burgos

Down little alleys to the bus stop.

Where it soon became apparent this is an agricultural community

Another older pilgrim turned up almost as early as me (three hours before the bus was due to arrive, but there was nowhere better to wait). Thankfully he was as interested in talking as I was (read: not at all), but after an hour he joined me in the sun which had broken over the wall and started asking questions. By the time an Italian pilgrim arrived, I knew quite a bit about this man (and he had told me a whole bunch that I had no idea about too…and some where I may have made up the story) Anyway, my attention was diverted to the Italian. Now bear in mind that apart from bellissimo and grazie, I speak no Italian. It is, however, very similar to Spanish, and context accounts for A LOT. He walked up and asked (in Italian) “Is this the bus stop for Burgos?”

The two of us, Mr 77-year-old-man-from-Madrid-with-blisters-on-his-toes-who-was-tired-and-going-home-even-though-he-hadn’t-got-to-Leon-which-would-have-finished-his-Camino-because-he-had-already-walked-Leon-to-Santiago-one-year-and Saint-Jean-to-Logroño-last-year-and-this-year-was-doing-Logroño-to-Leon, that guy and me, we both answered “Si” and when Mr Italian asked if the bus was coming at 10:30 we repeated ourselves. Given that Italian and Spanish are the same on this point, perhaps it was not surprising that he asked us if we were Italian. Mr Madrid was so tired he didn’t answer, so I explained our nationalities and that was that.

A guy from Hawaii who was in a real muddle about the fact that there was a family emergency at home and he needed to get back and didn’t know how he was going to do it turned up. Even though he had walked the perimeter of the Burgos airport a couple of days ago, his stress was so extreme that he had forgotten there was an airport there. By the time we finished chatting, he seemed considerably calmer and confident, with some ideas of options he could explore.

Mr Madrid was kindly looking out for me – he saved me a seat and checked that the bus driver hadn’t overcharged me!

Then we were off.

What a different perspective from up above the fields, and how different for distant objects to suddenly be beside you and then gone.

We wound through little villages, in one case the gap between buildings on each side only just wide enough for the bus to squeeze through. Nothing was familiar until we got to Tardajos where I had stopped on the first day out from Burgos. It was thrumming with pilgrims. The remainder of the way in to Burgos was largely where we had walked. As I retraced my steps in my mind I realised I will not hold the last week with fondness in my memory. My days may have been short, but they have been hard.

There were another two hours to kill on a bench outside my HOTEL – yes, I have booked a private room for two nights to hopefully help the recovery process.

And then…

I continued with what I had been doing at the bus stop. A number of people, stopped to talk. Two particularly stand out. One, an 84 year old lady who can’t see any more but used to love making things. The other a lady perhaps in her sixties, who was (unusually for a Spaniard) extremely softly spoken. She kept repeating “How beautiful, how exquisite, how precious, what hands”

Successfully checked in using the auto-check-in-machine, got myself settled, explored booking options for the next week to ensure I can keep to short days until I’m bouncing properly, and got this far in the blogpost, figuring I might not be quite so coherent later this evening!

Tooth update:

Procedure went well. Apparently it was “cleaning the nerve”. An hour of having a green silicone shield and metal forceps in my mouth and all sorts of pointy scrape-y things being put in and out. The only word I understood (apart from “open”) was “anaesthesia” and I was delighted every time the yellow syringe came near my mouth! Six X-rays later, they were happy and I was suddenly being told to take a swig of the disinfectant. They could have told me my tongue wasn’t working and it would go straight down my throat – my coughing was more dramatic than the procedure itself. Ok, that’s poetic license – in truth there was no fountain of who-knows-what coming from my mouth when I coughed as there had been earlier whenever she drilled!!

Glad it’s over. Kicking myself that I didn’t have my phone close enough to take some pics!!

I have a stash of yoghurt and rice pudding and cheese and oranges for tomorrow.

Planning on doing some washing and sleeping.