The Journey in Between by Keith Foskett

Author:Keith Foskett [Foskett, Keith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Nine

Roasting Peppers

The further I walked into Spain the more it affected me. Except for a package holiday to Salou one year, I had affectionate memories of this country. Now, though, I felt I was out there in the thick of it. I saw fields still being ploughed by man and horse. Onions were hung out to dry. People still roasted all their peppers, peeled the skin off, and preserved them for the winter. They ate what was grown in the back yard. Supermarkets hadn’t really made their mark out in the countryside, where there was no real need for them. I saw old women making cheeses by hand, pleased to let me taste when I asked. Families would want to make conversation when I went over to them. They would give me a bunch of grapes that had literally just been pulled off the vine. They would offer me a slug from the bottle of wine they had, and tempt me with meat crackling over a lunchtime fire. All I had to do was cast envious eyes at picnickers’ food and they would obligingly call me over.

On the approach to Ciraqui the rain I had been avoiding for so long caught me up. For three hours Jeannie and I walked along tracks transformed into torrents of water and mud. The elements pounded us relentlessly. Strangely, I was enjoying it. First, it was a new experience, one I had not encountered often on the Camino and, as much as I normally hated rain, I realised that I had sorely missed it. Second, the waterproofs were doing me proud. After I had cocooned myself in, the feeling that I was dry, and would remain that way despite the efforts of Mother Nature, gave me a feeling of security. Jeannie was faring a little worse. She had no pack cover and tried unsuccessfully to strap a space blanket over the whole thing as it wriggled and writhed in the gusts.

We found shelter in a pedestrian tunnel under the road, and sat there reading messages on the walls left by pilgrims stretching back years. We kidded ourselves that we were drying off, and smoked a couple of cigarettes. We splashed on to Ciraqui, which offered nothing in the way of overnight shelter; even the church was locked.

Under dark clouds we trudged on for another seven kilometres, skirting around freshly ploughed fields, making slow headway as thick, red mud clung in huge lumps to the tread of our boots. It felt like autumn. Lorca loomed above us like a garrison perched on an impregnable hill, and I felt I was a medieval soldier planning the best line of attack.

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