Via De La Plata, Part III: We Discuss Pinchos

freshly peeled cork oak

Another day with acorn orchards, a herd of sheep, and cork oak trees. We set out at six-thirty, and the day started cold enough that we both put on our gloves (unfortunately the cold couldn't be stored for later), but it was warm in an hour and a half, hot in three, and scorching in four -- the consistent daily pattern. We noticed an interesting micro-climate effect: if there wasn't a wind, large trees, with branches that dipped to the ground, would hold a pool of cool air. It was noticeable enough that we were usually tempted to stop and sit until the pool got hot. Naturally that would mean the rest of the walk would be hotter. A conundrum.
   The herd of sheep was much larger than the one of the earlier day. This herd was a hundred or more -- a shepherd and two dogs. (this time neither dog gave dw the stink-eye) We had an interesting semi-chat with the shepherd (the language barrier only partly over-come). He told us two pilgrims ahead of us had told him we were coming and he had looked forward to meeting us (rare Americans). he had been a shepherd all his life and he enjoyed the work. Again we were struck with how welcoming the locals are towards peregrinos. They seem to consider the pilgrim to be a traveler who belongs -- who is "one of us" and who is engaged in local life (largely true); as opposed to an ordinary tourist (regardless of how "good" the tourist is) who is passing through and doesn't engage on the same level. -- Interacting with local people is definitely one of the pleasures of the camino.

We spent two nights in Caceres. The Via de la Plata doesn't have as many small colorful villages as does the Frances or Via Podensis, although some can hold their own against any competitors, but the larger towns, and Caceres is the first after Merida, are beautiful indeed.

section of Caceres town wall

Spanish,Semana Santa clothes (Holy Week)

Plaza Mayor

   Casco Viejo, the old town, is surrounded by its original wall, which probably dates back to Roman times, with additions and alterations from Muslims, Christians, and assorted war-lords (Geraldo the Fearless -- "I'm Geraldo the Fearless and I'm going to kick your ass!"). The Plaza Major, just outside the walls, is a pleasant place to sit and watch the crowds (or the restaurant tout who reeled us in, and who was an energizer bunny non pareil). The old town is full of sights: we visited the Moorish cistern (larger than the one in Merida but without the goldfish), toured one of the (now vacant and city owned) palaces, found a dollar store equivalent where dw bought a hand fan and I bought a small pair of scissors for my mustache which was growing faster than expected. In the newer part of town we watched a roller-blade team (four young women plus a coach) practice their event: In an unused lot they set up two parallel courses -- 20 small red plastic cups 2 feet apart in a line. Two at a time they would sprint toward the lines and then coast through, weaving in and out of the cups. They were really fast and the two older women seldom hit the cups. It was impressive and interesting.

Painting in the Art Cafe

   As we walked toward the last site we wanted to see, we passed an art café which was showing some nice paintings. We sat on the terrace, overlooking a small valley with four horses on the far side doing horse things. As usual, along with our beers, the café served pinchos (a small snack served with drinks -- usually chips (crisps for any who are unenlightened), olives, peanuts, sausages, etc.) At this café the pinchos were chips.
    dw: "Do you like large chips, or small ones?"
    DJA: "Small ones, I think. They taste the same but the large ones can crumble and get on your shirt."
    dw: "Yeah, me too. And sometimes the small ones are extra crispy -- a taste treat."
    DJA: "Of course you can scoop up more dip with the big ones.:
   dw: "Unless they break."
   And so goes an end of day camino conversation.

The trail after Caceres goes through a bleak area, with one small town, a reservoir and some bridges. Few trees for shade, rock spires one to three feet high scattered around and out-numbering the trees. Not a pleasant section.

La Posada Grimaldo is a bit off the trail and totally undistinguished. To get to it we left the main trail, edged through a brushy area, crossed a small muddy stream, and climbed a short very steep hill. The private albergue was worth it. Its owner was a designer/builder who had lost his job and decided to open the albergue. The rooms were dedicated to different notables (ours was Gaudi, another was Garcia Lorca) and each was tastefully appointed with (often) original art and crafts. We loved the place. One of the best of the whole walk. There wasn't a dinner available (the village had two restaurants) but there was a do-it-yourself breakfast with the usual toast, coffee, muffins, and orange juice.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY: Churches, nations, and races are fantasies intended to evade death -- whereas we should confront "with passion the conundrum of life" --- James Baldwin

FACTOIDS: Siamese cats' color is temperature sensitive. Where it's cooler (as the ears) its fur is darker, where it's hotter its fur is lighter. So in the Sahara they're all white, while in the Arctic they're extinct -- eaten by polar bears -- because they were entirely dark and were easily seen against the snow.
   Mary Shelly (author of Frankenstein) and wife of the poet Shelley -- kept her husband's heart in her desk (after he died of course)

ANOTHER THOUGHT FOR TODAY: When people say: "Doing a little painting, eh?" or "Hot enough for you?" etc. they are indulging in what psychologists call "phatic communication" -- that is to say, talk intended to establish a sense of fellowship, rather than to convey any intelligent meaning. There are a lot of people whose entire conversation is composed of phatic communication. -- Carried to excess it earns them a reputation for phatheadedness.  --- Robertson Davies.

And so it goes.  DJA
 
 

Via De La Plata, Part II -- The Hospitalero Hates Us

The Alcuescar monastery's albergue  -- actually named: Casa de la Misericordia de la Congregacion de Esclavos de Maria y los Pobres (!) -- is  a very tight ship. It's closed from 2 to 4, and if you try to sign in at 2:01 you're out of luck. We arrived at 1:30 so signing in wasn't a problem. But later, Frances and Landon (two pilgrims we had met earlier), dw and I crossed an unexpected and invisible line, putting the hospitalero and his flunky into a noisy, petulant rage.

The day's walk was a pleasant path along Roman roads, through oak savanna and orchards of acorn oaks and olive trees, with an occasional walnut tree, three lime trees, and random cork oaks. We walked through low rolling hills with patches of brush, sparse dry grass, stone fences and few other signs of civilization. With an early enough start (6:15) we nearly finished walking before it got really hot. This section was like much of the next two weeks: Pleasant, lovely, each day subtly different from the last, little farming because of the rocky, boulder strewn land, and our passage unnoticed. If a landscape can seem to be aware, this land was indifferent, not seeking to amaze with spectacle, or threaten with danger, or even soothe with restful scenes -- it was as if thousands had passed and would pass and none could leave a mark on this hard edge of land.

   The trail through the length of Extremadura is marked with 18" granite cubes, each with a tile that denotes the direction of the trail, whether it's near the Roman road, or actually on the Roman road. Along with this day's cubes, we passed the Cruz del Nino Muerto, which marks the spot where a young shepherd, on his way to a Fiesta in Alcuescar, was killed and eaten by a wolf (in the far past). In the same area, paralleling the path, was an extra high, extra sturdy barbed wire fence, with an electric strand, which (if I understood the signs) enclosed a pasture for fighting bulls (beware: here be death!) 

Once in town, having avoided any hungry wolves, and having secured our beds for the night, we made an early afternoon paseo. Alcuescar is pleasant enough, if unexceptional. We headed for a 7/8th century Visigoth church but it was too far out of town so we turned back before we reached it. We tried to see the town's church, and the steeple was readily visible but after a series of dead-end streets, blind alleys, up and down hills, twists and turns with the steeple appearing in different places we gave up. It was very confusing and designed (we thought) to keep out vagrant riff-raff.

   We passed a large, seemingly private party. It was centered on a bar with people overflowing into the streets, front and back. The loud music oddly included Yankee Doodle Dandy and Camptown Races. Also featured in the party was a small boy in a stroller who seemed very angry that his dad wouldn't let his stroller just coast down a hill. Although the street was very steep the lad might have survived the ride.

Back at the albergue we learned the strict hours: Doors locked in the afternoon from 2 to 4 -- no one in or out. Doors locked 9PM to 7AM -- no one in or out. Lights out at 10PM (it wasn't clear if the electricity was actually turned off) The locked doors couldn't be opened from the inside. I wondered about fire laws.

   At 7PM the hospitalero led the four of us to the plain dining room. With standard metal folding tables and steel chairs it was a serviceable space and the meal was serviceable, although it ended with a large platter of perfectly ripe, delicious chunks of watermelon. The meal started with the hospitalero and his flunky (who looked like he either slept on a pallet in a closet or in a hole scraped out behind the building) insisting on their specific chairs. After eating we four peregrinos sat around enjoying a post-prandial conversation when the host and his flunky re-entered the room and started washing the dishes. Washing with an amazingly noisy crashing and banging of metal bowls and trays and ladles in the metal sink. They left and the four of us looked at each other with amazement. Someone said: "I think they want us to leave."  We all got up, finished clearing the table and washing the remaining dishes -- then the two hosts re-entered and started stacking the chairs on the table -- again with great crashing and banging. It was extraordinary and among the 20 caminos the four of us had walked, unique. The hosts didn't actually scream at us: "Get the hell out!" but that's what they meant. The four of us laughed about it, but on another level it was very rude and annoying. The hospitalero and his minion were volunteers but they clearly didn't want any actual peregrinos staying there.

Promptly at 7AM the next morning we were released. All four of us burst out of the building and breathed a sweet breath of freedom. Oddly the day wasn't very hot so the late start didn't matter much. This day we passed four Roman miliarios; the mile posts which aren't actually a mile apart, or any regular distance apart. Whatever they measured it wasn't distances. Depending on whether or not they're broken, the posts are four to six feet tall and 18 inches in diameter (1.5 to 2 M, and .5 M ) The inscriptions are mostly worn away but even without special scans some are visible: some dates are legible and one was dedicated to "the Divine Nerva". One of the first we passed is known as the miliario correo for the notch chiseled into it. At one time it was used as a mail drop for the nearby Casa de Santiago de Bencaliz. We put a self-addressed post card into it (with postage) and at some point Angelika from Austria picked it up, added a short note,  and mailed it. We were thrilled when we got home that the card was waiting for us. So we had successfully used a 2000 year old mail box. That was fun.
   Again we walked through a large acorn oak orchard. We finally realized that after the acorns drop, pigs are turned loose in the orchard --- on their way to becoming expensive jamon.
   Our end for the day was Aldea del Cano. Another modest village with a large tree stump/trunk dumped in the middle of the main plaza -- that puzzled us until we got back home and  friends (Sharon S., and Manuel C.S.P.) found an explanation on the web: The stump is the basis for a giant Christmas Bonfire.caceresaldetalle.blogspot.com.es/2016/08/tradicion-del-tuero-en-aldea-del-cano.html  (bonfire photo from the web)

   The afternoon of our arrival, I was sitting reading on the porch of our albergue, when a semi-sober local guy invited me into a bar for a drink. I accepted and it was an experience. He spoke slightly more English than I speak Spanish, but we did communicate: He was from Bilbao and comes down every holiday to visit his 86 year old mother, because he's a very good son. I'm from Oregon USA, and my mother is deceased. His father who he dearly loves died several years ago and he is iffy about dearly loving his mother, but he's a very good son. The area is very hot, but he's used to the heat and enjoys his holiday visits. I had a beer, he was drinking some sort of awful, sweet, sherry like stuff. (the bartender gave me a taste), which is better than beer, but beer is still manly. Finally I convinced him that I had to shower, but he's a very fine man, and I'm a very fine man. We're both very fine men. Which is good to know.

POEM FOR TODAY:
Only the Air Spirits know
What is found beyond the mountains.
Yet I urge on:
Go on and on
On and On!
(Traditional Inuit)

FACTOIDS:

Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven was inspired by Charles Dicken's pet raven "Grip". Grip was featured in Barnaby Rudge: "what was that -- tapping at the door?" and "Tis someone -- knocking at the shutter." Also, Edouard Manet illustrated Mallarme's French translation of The Raven.
 
QUOTE; "Ignorance breeds confidence --" Thucydides

Knock
Knock
Knock, knock
Knock, knock, knock
Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock
Who's there?

Fibonacci.

(OK. Not all jokes are actually funny)

And so it goes. DJA