A little after leaving Astorga, in Castrillo de los Polvazares –the whole village is a monumental rustic beauty created by muleteers– I tore ligaments in my ankle when I twisted it as I crossed a log bridge in a stream, and my foot has swollen like a balloon. That’s where all my plans have been put on hold, I said to myself. The landlady of the inn where I went for lunch hurried to apply cloths soaked in vinegar and salt. The swelling has gone down, but walking still hurts. She’s said that she’ll look for an elastic bandage. I’ve lost my appetite. I was again offered cocido maragato, the local dish of plentiful boiled meats, and my body gave a leap of joy and horror. I was quite happy with a salad and a monumental slice of conger eel, prepared in the local garlicky style, of course.

After lunch I went out into the street wondering whether to return to Astorga and wait there in a hotel to see how my ankle developed, or carry on along the Way ... out of the question to walk, no– hitchhiking... I’ll make up for lost time... I’ll forget about my promise to walk, because now there’s a force majeur, a van stops for me, he’s a chatty fellow who brings wine and other drinks up to these villages, so he told me, and off we went across small hills and gentle slopes, Santa Catalina  de Somoza, El Ganso (in other words the goose, la oca, the game of snakes and ladders, and again I remembered Sánchez Dragó), and Rabanal del Camino... the landscape is cinemascope size, it makes your breast swell, it has a sort of ascetic grandeur.

Pedro García Trapiello