Over the Hills of Oca we go on towards Burgos. The afternoon has cooled down. The cold air makes it feel like March, and we would believe it is March if men were not reaping in the cornfields and the vines were not dressed in green. Two herdsmen wrapped in blue blankets pass by with their drove of cows and calves. The bells gladden the afternoon. I felt like going to Clavijo, even though I’m no fan of St James the Moorkiller, but just to see the battlefield. I would have liked to spend a few leisurely days in Albelda and San Millán de la Cogolla, on the paths trodden by Gonzalo de Berceo. But the Way must be completed in the stipulated time.

            Álvaro Cunqueiro,

unpublished translation