A rebel without a clue.

I tried to switch off, but the Chinese takeaway is replaying. Time to get my act together. Peppermint tea and then back to LaLaland. First hostel for a while. Indeed since Alicante when I started the second leg of this idiocy. Already I feel a little better in my head: there really isn't anything to worry about! I've many good memories since leaving Alicante back then on the 7th November, and obviously some real challenges - which I overcame each time. Last night a lad from Wisconsin who was traveling and busking around Europe: and was an excellent chap, gave me two short novellas, to envelope, which I will dig out tomorrow or Friday. After I've cleaned up this abused body with a good night's sleep and then I'll shower, get fresh and cleaned (unnecessary) clothes on - I managed to wash all in Alba de Tormes and properly unwind tomorrow. But clothes ... I mean why? *** What is this word "holiday"? It makes no sense to me. 13.8 billion years for us to appear...

Christmas Eve: Had to cheat a little this morning. Up at six and leaving the Casa Parroquial at seven I spent half an hour trying to find a place to have breakfast before walking to Salamanca, but I failed. Crossing over the river Tormes I thought there maybe an option there, but no there wasn't so I began to feel it best to stick out my thumb and go another way to Salamanca? Here I am. Just gone eight and it always amazes me just how direct, far and fast it's possible to go via the internal combustion engine! And how the city shines in the morning sun. The fellow who picked me up was delivering some Jamón to the Central Mercado and so now I'm here. On the way, in my very broken Spanish and his broken French, we discussed some things: his jamón business, the fact he knows the US but not the UK and I asked him about Christmas Eve and when the shops etc shut. It appears that by 1pm that's it! It's a bloody good job I didn't walk... I'd have arrived to a possib...

But what is it worth? That's the golden question. I'm sat at the bar enjoying a Ribera del Duero in shorts, socks and a borrowed pair of Crocs and on the TV is some garbage about catering for the mega rich at Christmas: fuck them! Most of them couldn't masturbate alone, never mind boil an egg, yet someone in the UK thinks the mega rich: or the mega twats, need our attention over Christmas? Why, because they gave a great big bird to someone once because they were shown their souls - but this was a Dickensian fantasy anyway. Penultimate day on The Way this year and I am once again relying on the Padre. This time there are two places in the Casa Parroquial, but I must be back by 9 otherwise the bedroom shrinks to one hundredth of a second after the Big Bang in dimensions: hang on I'm going back. Why do we need this nonsense? What does it complete? My only feeling is it creates another hurdle, another frenetic fear driven assault, on what is totally at ease and should only ...

Finding the key to the front door of the Sunday School was making me lose the plot. Then I recalled that the front door attacked me last night. It's one of those stable door types, but the bottom half wasn't moving as I collided with it. Merrily I was a little merry from the vino and finding this bed in a classroom. I'd left the key in the front door. Having repacked my emptied rucksack and left the room ship shape off I went to locate a cafe, putting the key through the post box of the priests home. Yesterday was the first time I'd stepped into a church and it was quite beautiful inside: I've been trying to stay clear of the Church for a while: as though I have a grievance with it. It has done wrong on many many levels, but I guess it gives millions much needed sanctuary. Mostly I find mine in the unexpected incidents: like the previous town where the bar had a "real" cider from Navarra: a guy in the bar told me I was more excited than his children are on...

Starting on Sunday with one hundred percent in my head. Infact my eyes were dilated when usually they've been bleary. Churros and coffee and too many young boys drunk and possibly unable to pay attention. Attention span of a gnat. I just want to relax and consider I've three more days until this is over. Actually I've not had this kind of experience ever on Camino. The last experience like this was coming back through Leeds City Station. It's eight on a Saturday. Are we all the same in Europe and the world? It's probably true. The grocer makes money from us always. The rich get richer and the poor pickle their livers. Yesterday they fed me here with a large plate of various pork products and I can't escape Jamón, salchichón, lomo. Then I retired to the calor gas fire and tranquility in the haze induced by fine fine Sidra, sin sulphate. *** The wind and rain blowing forcefully against me: direct and at my head, brought me sagging into a town without an Albergue. ...

From today I really need to detox, both mentally and physically, which was the plan of this walk. Yesterday I managed to resist alcohol with my evening meal and so I was awake at six when breakfast in the hotel isn't available until 8; with no one in the dining area I was sat patiently for the time of activity to begin. Last night I felt I'd been overlooking the other way too long: peaceful within and mindful at every instant. It's so easy to forget this proven path to an instant when all the perceived pains are shown to be nothing beyond what exists in the mind. There have been times I've being feeling so tarnished that the walk was unpleasant. It's become something of a meaningless ritual. The pleasure I've felt from walking is become just another habit which has taken me over. Although I think that by constantly carrying more stuff in my sack than I will ever use is blatantly stupid and could be making it feel less inspiring. The craving to feel the inspirati...

Venezuelan breakfast. Arepas, onions, cream cheese, yogurt, tomatoes and strong coffee. Off to finish my ablutions and walk due west for five more days. Into Salamanca on Christmas Eve. The rain has stopped and the birds are chirping in the Albergue yard. The wind from last night has abaited. The Venezuelan gentleman makes ice cream in Valencia, but here in Spain he is a gardener. Must be awful being a refugee in the cold Meseta? *** A guy at the bar said this weather was perculiar, even in winter, for this part of Spain. Cold, but dry, not windy, cold and wet like this. But it is wet and windy and I must endure four more days walking the tedious terrain with nothing to break up the day. Gosh and I'm carrying far too much stuff: I looked at my trousers, etc, this morning and questioned my reasoning... Far too many changes of underwear, shorts and at least three pairs of trousers: ok the waterproofs are necessary, but two pairs of shorts?!? It's constantly making the walking in ...