We hiked in fog and light rain in a straight, flat line, agricultural land stretching as far as we could see in all directions. The path, light brown clay with pebbles inlayed, stretched before us into the mist. A kind of maple tree lined the path, turning colors with autumn temperatures. The path would be intersected by a sluggish stream, winding through the countryside, marsh reeds lining the edges.
We stopped in a supermercado, a miniature grocery store for lunch ingredients, the store attendent cutting slices of cured beef and pulling out a baguette for us. We bought tomatoes and used cheese from Burgos, which we sliced up with our Swiss Army knife. We have been doing this frequently for lunch, enjoying it every time. This time we ate at a bench in the little town we were in.
While we were sitting there an elderly man bicycled up. He had a box of tomatoes he had just picked from his garden on the back of his bicycle. He did not speak any Engish. He began passing out tomatoes to us, picking out tomatoes and handing them to us behind his back. It was almost like a secret between us. We had extra sliced beef, but he refused our offers. His tomatoes were delicious, and I ate two of them, eating them like an apple.
farmland in the Meseta
tomatoes from a generous farmer
Nothing beats a freshly picked tomato!
This afternoon, after finishing the hike, we drank sangria and ate potato tortilla, an egg, potato, cheese, pie-like dish available everywhere on the Camino. Manuel, a retired fur dealer from Spain, joined us and then Monique from Holland, an English teacher, came over. We had a lively conversation, fueled by multiple rounds of sangria and beer with olives and potato chips. After a heated exchange between Manuel and Monique about the ethics of catching the bus to cover parts of the Camino, the evening was culminated in Manuel demonstrating for Karen, who videotaped it, how to put hashish into a cigarette and smoke it. He had a ball of hashish as big as a roll of quarters. He claimed to be smoking it while walking the Camino, and we nicknamed him the Flying Spaniard.
Now we are back in our room eating slices of cured beef, cheese, and tomatoes on top of dense German bread we got from a bar two days ago run by a Spanish man and a German woman. Life is good.
Walking El Camino de Santiago 