25 | July | 2025 | The Book of Barnabas

Albergue Parroquial de las Carbajales, León. 21.33.

I’m not entirely sure I needed a rest day. I could just as easily have pushed on to La Robla today and been well on my way to Oviedo, but I wouldn’t have got to say goodbye to my friends, and that was important. We had one final breakfast together at a bar opposite the Parque del Cid, and then I walked with them as far as the bridge of San Marcos. They set off with hearts full of light and I turned back to the city, alone.

Leaving the Camino for any reason is always a hard thing to do. Choosing to remain behind, however – that’s probably the hardest thing of all. Knowing that the companions who have been your world for the last two weeks are somewhere out there, still going strong, as you open the door to the place where you stayed to find the place dark and empty.

Chip, the friendly gentleman from Utah and the father figure of our little group, had gone by the time I returned. So it was just me. I’m perfectly happy with my own company, but that sudden void of emptiness still hit hard.

I didn’t have too long to wait. I sat in the square by the cathedral and watched people come and go for a little while. When twelve o’clock came around, I checked into the Albergue Carbajales (where I stayed two years ago), bought myself the Salvadorana credencial and struck out into the city for a little culture – something to take my mind off my sudden isolation.

I’ve been to the Centro de Interpretación in the Palacio del Conde Luna before, but museums are always worth a second look. León is the rival faction in the alternative history saga that I’m writing, not Castilla, so I’m always looking for details in places such as this to help me build my world.

I especially love medieval art – particularly the Byzantine style with almost-shaped, almost cartoonish eyes. They are far more descriptive in their storytelling than any early modern masterpiece and very easy to replicate in my journal. I was lucky to arrive just in time for a free guided tour with a local historian, too, which was pretty special.

Today was mostly, however, about people watching. I saw a handful of familiar faces in town – the digital nomad couple from Texas, the retired American couple I met in Hornillos, the Effing Dutchman and two Texans from the other young group who took a rest day in León – but on the whole they were mainly stragglers, as the rest of the weekend wave all moved on today.

No – today was for watching the people of León.

León is a part of Spain I have got to know rather well thanks to the Camino. Andalucía and Extremadura will always have my heart, but there is a proud and noble beauty in this ancient corner of Iberia. Leonese Spanish is crystal clear, which is notable in that their regional dialect, llionés, is closer to being a language in its own right than a simple change in accent. If the Castilians hadn’t proved the greater of the two powers, the Spanish we speak today might have sounded very different indeed.

As it is, a combination of geographical, political and economic factors left the Leonese stranded, looking inwards, while the mobile Castilians raced to grab the former Muslim territories across the border and, in so doing, sow the seeds of one of the most successful languages of all time.

There‘s still some lingering resentment about León’s status as an autonomous community within Spain. If it wasn’t obvious from the Camino signs (where Castilla or León are scratched out on either side of the border), it’s even more so in León itself, where Leonese flags are sold on the cheap and some stores carry placards or banners in their windows promoting self-rule.

We focus a lot on Catalunya’s constant struggle for independence, but it’s worth remembering that Spain was once a republic comprised of individual states, many of which were once kingdoms in their own right. The Catalans are certainly vocal, but they’re not the only ones with a claim on self-rule: the Basques, the Galicians, the Leonese and even the Andalusians could all claim that their regions are distinct enough to warrant independence.

The Americans I have been walking with are young and carry that profound dislike for nationalism and state boundaries that is so common at that age. I remember it well. But for me, though I remain a fierce advocate of liberty and freedom of though, speech and expression, I am also a believer in the good that comes from having a sense of national identity. After all, in my case, finding out about my heritage in Spain has given me immense peace of mind. I’m not just play-acting at speaking Spanish anymore. It’s literally in my blood.