37. Zamora to Montamarta

Short, flat, straight and windy pretty much sums up today’s stage. If I was to use just one word it would be ‘industrial’. It’s not what I’d choose, if I were doing the choosing, but it’s part of the world (and life) and it feel’s important to me as a pilgrim to seek to be with it when it’s there, rather than resisting, skipping, or avoiding it. 

It’s not that we spent much time walking through actual industrial areas, though there was evidence of what might broadly be termed industry, such as this car wreckers yard.

I mean industrial in the sense of bland and perfunctory. The land was divided into square paddocks, ploughed in rows, and lined by straight service roads and electricity lines. The was little sense of character to the land or the path.

It was only 20kms to Montamarta from Zamora so I decided to take it slowly and gently. I wanted to give el blister, every chance of healing. Accordingly, when I passed through the one intermediate town on the stage and saw this sign, I had no hesitation in pausing for coffee and toast. Whilst there, I picked up from the TV blaring away in the corner, that there are bad fires burning in Extremadura, near Cáceres, and that parts of Andalucía have been battered by storms, with damaging hail and flooding. I feel for these communities and realise I may have dodged a few ‘bullets’.

I saw a scattering of pilgrims along the way, all of them doing their best to press on in the face of ever more blustery and buffeting wind. 

From a distance, I couldn’t tell whether this was a pony or a dog. I’ve certainly seen bigger dogs than this in Spain but never such a small pony.

One of the high speed rail lines to Zamora intersected with our route.

In fact, crossing this bridge across the rail line was, I suspect, the highest point of the stage!!

There is a pilgrim on this seemingly endless stretch of road but he is just a speck, a humbling reminder that this way is far, far bigger than any of us. 

Montamarta couldn’t be much more different to Zamora. Zamora is an elegant and sophisticated city, full of grand stone buildings and buzzing with activity. Montamarta is a rambling, ramshackle town, cut through by a highway.*

When I arrived, the albergue was deserted. All you could hear was the sound of the wind whistling around corners and banging lose sections of corrugated iron. 

Another couple have since arrived but it seems we may be a smaller crew sleeping here tonight. 

Meanwhile, a long, quiet afternoon and evening stretches ahead. These times can feel lonely… and, I’ve learnt, can become precious times of solitude.

Buen Camino 

Neil💙👣

* Zamora and Montamarta are very different but they are alike in that they both make available and service a place for pilgrims like me to stay at very reasonable rates. This is an amazing thing and I am genuinely grateful for it. In fact, in the Montamarta albergue there is even a washing machine to use, free of charge.