The Meseta

Some fading flowers.

Hey guys we are on the famous Meseta. Lots of pilgrims head for the bus at this point. Hot, flat, boring endless are adjectives that immediately spring to mind. I must admit that we have thought about giving this section a miss. Even this morning in the very slight gloaming, all felt normal. Sweet old convented village, clear skies and small surrounding hills.

Typical busy Albergue.

Climbing gently in welcome silence, away from roads, rail and pylons we came upon the Mesata. Not a dramatic revelation more a walk up the fairway after a good drive. Pale limestone colours amazing vastness without being flat, but no skylarks. They really should be there, but Spanish farmers are inclined to disagree.

This is a big country. It came as a shock to see a car speeding over a field in the near distance. Of course it was a road, but so out of place. It is not flat, there are hills, mini, giving the impression of a fully mature landscape but our route is straight and flat. It is not unlike the sea.

Indeed our behaviour has become rather seaman like. Faced with large distances and occasional spartan ports we have become a convoy. All the people from last night met for breakfast at the first village and stopped at the second for overnight shelter, all be it at 1 in the afternoon. It is really difficult to imagine anything going on in this one sheep town but there is a sort of lively safety in numbers going on here. Another convoy that set off from Burgos arrived later this afternoon, so the Meseta port feels quite busy now.

Our convoy is looking industrious at present. Ellen is listening to Michel and perfecting her Spanish. Birte is drawing peoples faces and looking Germanically serious. Edwina is trying to clean her camera in a Mr Bean fashion and I am slightly drunkenly listening to Philip an even more drunken German Honk Kong pilgrim making merry with a bottle of Rioja.


Author: paul

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