Derwen Rhys
New Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- July 2014
Having arrived in Carrion, footworn and tired I have a chance to reflect on the last few days. I stayed in the industrial outskirts of Burgos.. not pretty but they never are. I slogged it through Burgos at 6am. I know I missed wonderful things but I feel most content and safe on The Way. I climbed up into the Meseta. A cloudy start that broke up and wind picking up. I was somewhere else in my head. I arrived in Hornillos and decided to stay.
At about 7pm I felt strange. I had crossed my first part of the Meseta and not taken anything in. I threw on some shorts and started walking back up the way, from where we had all come. There is a small bridge on the outskirts under which an enthusiastic stream runs along covered in white crowfoot. Swifts were showing off all about me and I continued back up that antique white path listening to the poplars crackle and fizz in the breeze. Does the Meseta wind have a name? I was told by a local it blows mainly from the east so urging on tired caminotti. I called it la vela peregrinos, the pilgrims sail. It pushes you on, on course, through an ocean of wheat and barley the colour of mountain lions. I sat at the crossroads on the town sign, uprooted by a car by the look of it. I had my Meseta.
Next morning I left in the dark and trudged my way into a glorious dawn. The wheat watches you as you pass by. It tumbles down to the ways edge , surging forward to glimpse the strange but constant travellers. A land that smells of jasmine, marzipan, the middle ages and burnt ironing. I fell in love with the Meseta. I know I will dream if it.
At about 7pm I felt strange. I had crossed my first part of the Meseta and not taken anything in. I threw on some shorts and started walking back up the way, from where we had all come. There is a small bridge on the outskirts under which an enthusiastic stream runs along covered in white crowfoot. Swifts were showing off all about me and I continued back up that antique white path listening to the poplars crackle and fizz in the breeze. Does the Meseta wind have a name? I was told by a local it blows mainly from the east so urging on tired caminotti. I called it la vela peregrinos, the pilgrims sail. It pushes you on, on course, through an ocean of wheat and barley the colour of mountain lions. I sat at the crossroads on the town sign, uprooted by a car by the look of it. I had my Meseta.
Next morning I left in the dark and trudged my way into a glorious dawn. The wheat watches you as you pass by. It tumbles down to the ways edge , surging forward to glimpse the strange but constant travellers. A land that smells of jasmine, marzipan, the middle ages and burnt ironing. I fell in love with the Meseta. I know I will dream if it.