Behind the Albergue Door: Inspiration Agony Adventure on the Camino de Santiago

Burgos with the unbridled enthusiasm of a guy with a sweater wrapped around his shoulders in a Volkswagen commercial.
    From then on paces and schedules were all over the map right up until the last four or five days, at which point suddenly everyone bore down and decided on a finishing date that became inexplicably etched in stone, regardless of the fact most were chosen based on completely arbitrary and unrelated reasons.
    Unclear timing issues (we fly out of Barcelona Nov 17 th so we need to get to Santiago by the 4 th ).
    Vague religious notions (we want to arrive in time for Sunday mass).
    Commendable attempts to arrive with friends (we’ll all approach the Cathedral together, run around and squeal in a girlish manner, then take off our pants and build a human pyramid, you know, for Facebook).
    Astonishing decisions to continue hiking (if we don’t make it there by Monday we won’t have time to hike another hundred kilometres to Finisterre).
    Or shady sexual motives (it has been a very dry month and I really want to get there Saturday before all the really drunk chicks are taken).
    Is there anywhere I’m NOT allowed to shit?
    Well, funny you should ask because, yes, apparently there is one place. A specifically designed rest stop somewhere between Santo Domingo de Calzada and Belorado, nicely fenced in, a handful of scrawny trees planted to provide a modicum of shade and some flowing stone recliners that do a much better job of looking comfortable than actually being so but which, at the very least, make it clear that we aren’t despoiling some children’s rural playground or a sordid Friday night frolic zone for closeted gay farmhands, but that we are both welcome and encouraged to stop and loiter without any nagging concerns of imposing while we’re wolfing down crumbling old sandwiches and inspecting the raw blisters on our sweaty bare feet as though they are the most fascinating thing we’ve seen since that Welsh fashion critic. A welcome respite in the midst of a long numbing day trudging through open fields and colourful grapevines. Everything about this place assured us it was a ready haven for relaxation, recuperation and mediocre snacks. But apparently some enthusiastic pilgrims in the past, more than a few I’d imagine, to warrant a permanent sign, must have taken things a bit too far, hence the prominent “No Shitting” sign presiding over the area, complete with the standard large circle with a red line through it and festively graphic photo of a stick-thin pilgrim doing exactly that.
    What do you get when you cross a colossal downpour with a stuffy café filled with day-old egg pastries and two dozen grim unwashed pilgrims?
    For me, usually a bocadillo and a Coke. Maybe a Snickers if there’s one kicking around. But, seriously, those trailside bars get mighty full on rainy days. Like lustrous beacons shining out of the drudgery promising so much comfort and sustenance. Some much-needed warmth, up to three different variations of highly similar coffees, a luxurious thirty minutes to an hour backpack-free and the kind of hair-curling humidity you only find when you cram a couple dozen people in a tiny space, or spend time in a bio-dome with Stephen Baldwin.
    How many people do you suppose have been murdered and quietly buried in a shallow grave in the abandoned rest area outside Calzada de los Hermanillos?
    Thankfully not us, anyway. We had spent the past few hours hiking in almost total isolation (leave it to two lousy bikers to force me into using qualifiers) and had been carefully scanning the horizon for much of that time on the lookout for a comfortable bit of shade where we could take a load off and maybe share a chocolate bar with minimal bickering. So we were unreasonably optimistic when we discovered this rest area hidden away in a slightly depressing copse of straggly poplars nominally equipped with a couple crumbling cement picnic tables, a mildew-encrusted fountain softly leaking a bit of murky water and the strange feeling that a lot of cats had died there fairly recently. Of course, we were exhausted so it was going to take a bit more than a mere spooky feeling or enigmatic creepy cold shadow passing directly through our bodies to get us back on the trail before we finished our snack. Besides, everyone knows ghosts of cats past don’t mess with The Northface.
    Don’t you get bored hiking for that long?
    Yes, basically all the time . That first hour usually goes pretty