On the morning that I crossed the bridge, the river was certainly wide but not exactly a powerful torrent, in fact it's surface was as flat calm as a mill pond (They obviously use a bit of poetic licence in the travel brochures).
I was walking in company with numerous pilgrims from all corners of the world the majority being Americans followed in descending numbers by Germans, Koreans, Australians, Spanish, Irish and one lone 'Billy no mates' from England, namely me. I did meet some other Britons along the way but we were definitely in the minority. Our idea of Spanish culture is to get pissed out of our brains in Malaga on cheap lager and throw up everywhere (apparently).
After approaching another peregrino and exchanging names the next question would usually be
"Which part of the United States are you from"?
"Florida, which part of Australia do you come from"?
"London"
"Is that just south of Sydney"?
"No, it's just north of Surrey"
"I didn't know that there is a Surrey in Australia"?
"There isn't, I'm from England"
"Why are you speaking with an Australian accent"?
"I'm not, I'm speaking with a London accent".
This is how I discovered that I was bi-lingual. I lost count of the number of Americans who thought that I was Australian. It got even worse though when some of the Australians thought that I was a fellow country man of theirs. A thought crossed my mind that if it carries on like this, I'll have to wear a string vest and a hat with corks around the brim. Later a couple of Australians that I met in Galicia decided to christen me 'Bruce' and make me an honourary citizen of Oz, I think that they were impressed with my beer drinking skills.
A few miles along the trail we stopped for a lovely picnic breakfast made from the remains of last nights meal by two of my new found friends. It was another glorious spring day without a cloud in the sky. The birds were singing, the bees were buzzing and all the flowers were in bloom (Now look what's happened I've turned into Mary Poppins).
As the morning wore on it got hotter and hotter and my left hand was suffering from the sun burn that I picked up yesterday. Luckily for me I was walking with a very resourceful young Woman from Colorado who made me a pair of sock gloves, an invention of hers that she had perfected in the highlands of Scotland a couple of weeks earlier. Another lady pilgrim donated a pair of old pink coloured socks which were turned into a gloves by cutting off the toe areas and making a slit along the natural curve of the heel sections. They worked really well in preventing my left hand becoming more sunburned, and matched my wife's pink coloured camera that I was carrying. I was definitely getting in touch with my feminine side out here on the camino.
I stopped for lunch in the shade of an under pass beneath the main road where I brewed up a cup of good old English tea on my super light camp stove, Titanium cup combination. It wasn't real tea unfortunately, but it was the next best thing, instant tea powder from an old army ration pack. It tasted great and was a change from cafe con leche which I was beginning to get fed up with. Everybody who passed by found it highly amusing that I was brewing up along side of the trail. Just another eccentric Englishman, mad dogs and all that. On the wall of the underpass amongst all the usual graffiti somebody had drawn an amusing cartoon of a typical peregrino which was so apt.
The rest of the afternoon was a long dusty slog under the heat of the unremitting sun but I was in good company. We eventually reached Estella our destination for the evening and booked into the municipal albergue. An hour later after a warm shower and a couple of cool beers I felt almost human again. 'Buen Camino' as they say in these parts.
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