The miracle of the deserted pueblo

It's happened before. It will probably happen again. It was siesta time in the tiny village on the empty Castillian plain a couple of days west of Salamanca. I was hot and dusty and closely resembled a vagrant. I saw a Mahou sign: a caña would be nice. I limped towards it and a head appeared at a window. It's shut on Thursdays, bad luck. Oh. Could you tell me the way to the albergue please? "¿Albergue? Acqui no hay". Oh again. I think (sincerely hope) you're mistaken. I'll ask Pilar. She knocks on next door. Pilar emerges. Of course we've got an albergue, it's in the old school, where we have the Pilates class, Puri holds the key, we'll get her. So they both escort me into the village, chatting about the drought, and its effect on the mushrooms, the grapes, the olives, everything except the chestnuts, it seems. Puri was waiting with the keys, and showed me how to turn on (and off) the water mains, and where to put the key in the morning etc, while we commiserated about the closure of rural schools (my son's village school came within two pupils of closure when he was in year 1).

At 3pm a tramp arrived in town. By 3.30 the pilgrim had three new friends, much information, a safe place to stay the night and an invitation to dinner.

It is a miracle.