Sunday with the Spanish

There are a lot of fountains on the Camino and one quickly loses any inhibitions about drinking from a public fountain when e sun comes out. This one in Irache is however very special. Rather than dish out just water it also dishes out the local red wine. Apparently the Benedictine Monastery next door used to welcome pilgrims with a glass of red so the winegrowers decided to continue the tradition of welcoming pilgrims but with a wine fountain. Of course this would never work in England – it would be permanently drunk dry and someone would be draining every new delivery to sell to school-children.

Bit sad not to be at home with the family today. In the restaurant of the hotel where I’m staying tonight the Spanish are demonstrating their tremendous sociability. Packed to the gunwales, the women all dressed well, the men all dressed as slobs, the TV on showing some football match that no-one cares about and everyone talking over each other. Rather a nice place to be. Some fellow pilgrims for me to chat to too.

I will sleep better tonight than last night. I’ve decided that the correct collective noun for 11 Spanish women in a hostel is not a gaggle, but a “cackle”. Boy, they could talk. When they finally stopped chatting it took about another hour for the girl in the bunk above to stop turning over which made a funny metallic sound each time. But after that, glorious sleep. I had a strange dream about staying in a hotel and having to stamp on a rat before Dara saw it….I guess I wasn’t too happy with the accommodation to generate that imagery. But then all dreams stopped as the earthquake woke me up. The tremor shook my bunk and I awoke sharply. It was pretty grim to realise the source of the earthquake was an American a few doors down. All I can say is that Dara would have an absolute right to smother me with a pillow if I snored like that.

Perhaps I do snore like that though. In that case I’m married to a saint.

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