Camino IX: Sticks and Stones

I spoke too soon last night. Around five o’clock, not too long before Lourdes, the hostalera, set off for home for the night, a bearded Frenchman arrived de la nada and set down his kit for the night. Antoine, from the town of Évian-les-Bains (of bottled fame), had walked a hell of a way to get to San Bol: not only had he walked a whopping 45km from Atapuerca that morning (bypassing the city of Burgos entirely), but he had started his Camino from his front door, making this his eighth week on the road. I’ve only ever met one other pilgrim on such a trek, a real rag-and-bones German who had gone for a walk with his dog and kept on going. Antoine, however, looked as though he had only set out yesterday. It was as good an excuse as any to practise my French, which isn’t nearly as rusty as I thought (though I did have to think how to say the number seventy-five), and it was good to hear a fresh perspective on what’s going on in France right now from a Frenchman.

I watched the sunset over the meseta from the porch and ended up having a very engaging chat with a local man from Iglesias with the most original name of Porfirio Celestino. He had come up on his bike to see if the new trees had grown in this spot, but also to check on his beehive, which he had been told to rejig by an expert. We had a laugh about our shared experiences as teachers and tried to outdo each other’s collection of oldy-worldy names like Araceli, Guadalupe and Diosgracias (the latter being my great-great grandfather’s Christian name). I think I won with the latter, he laughed so heartily. Wouldn’t you, if your parents named you Thanks-Be-To-God?


I allowed myself a later start this morning. Later being 7.45am, which is a perfectly respectable time to set out. The sunrise was nothing short of magical, and it was all I could do not to linger longer. I can’t recommend the Albergue de San Bol more highly. It was a perfect introduction to the Meseta and blissfully immersive. A partridge climbed up onto one of the many piles of rocks to serenade the valley as I set out, the twin flags of Spain and Iglesias fluttering in the cool morning breeze. There are lots of piles of rocks like that around. I guess they’re removed periodically from the fields to make plowing considerably easier.


Hontanas was deceptively distant. I would have found it quite a slog under the midday sun had I attempted it yesterday, but in the morning light it was a very pleasant walk. Wild flowers line the luminous Camino right the way across the Meseta, adding dashes of crimson, cornflower blue and violet to the shimmering seas of gold.

At one point, high on the plateau above Hontanas, I seemed to be absolutely surrounded by quails. I couldn’t see a single one – they’re tiny, incredibly well-camouflaged and very rarely flush when cornered – but I could hear them all around. Their three-stop whistle can carry for as far as a mile, but if you can hear their childlike ‘—aauWAH’ it’s a good sign that they’re nearby. Quails and turtle doves are fast becoming the soundtrack to the meseta, and that puts a serious spring in my step.

I’ve passed a couple of roadside graves today (not pictured for obvious reasons). They were quite a common sight on the first couple of days of the Camino, where the mountain pass can be dangerous under the wrong conditions, and tended to be Asian or Latin American in origin. Out here in the middle of the Camino, however, the meseta proves a challenge that isn’t always insurmountable, claiming Spaniards and even the hardy Dutch. I try to say a small prayer at each one I pass. By the looks of the painted stones at their feet, I’m not the only one.


Hontanas seems to be a magnet for pilgrims. A sizeable number had stopped for breakfast at the first café, leaving the road ahead clear. I had only a few cents left in my wallet, but I still spent a good ten minutes there, though that was because I caught sight of a little owl perched on the wire opposite the café. I deliberately didn’t bring my camera as it would have been one belonging too many on the road, but I regretted that decision more than once today – my phone camera simply doesn’t do justice to the beautiful little thing!


After Hontanas the Camino crosses and then follows a wooded stream for a couple of miles. Here, once again, I came across one of my favourite sights of the route: the silver, scythe-like wings of a harrier. It caught me completely by surprise as I came up a low hill, and I could see the yellow rings of its eyes before it jinked and soared away down the valley.

I thought I’d lost him, loitering for a few minutes to see if I could spot where he went, but not five minutes later I saw him up ahead, quartering the valley floor. Kites are graceful, but harriers – especially the silver-grey males – are in a whole other league, drifting over the fields like black-fingered phantoms. He disappeared behind the trees as I drew near, and then re-appeared clutching a fair length of straw in his talons, to take back to his nest in the wheat-fields, no doubt.

Some things, I guess, are worth going solo for. Seriously, I could get used to encounters such as these.


At the end of the valley, the road cuts right through the imposing ruins of the Monasterio de San Antón. So cleanly, in fact, that the main road runs beneath two of its great stone arches. There’s a tiny albergue here and a chance for a bonus stamp (at last!), but I was quite content to just explore for a bit, not being in any particular hurry.


There are plenty of old churches along the Camino, but this ruined monastery is rather special – not least of all because of the way its hollow windows open out onto the endless blue of the Castilian skies beyond. I’m going to run out of adjectives for the sky long before I’m clear of the meseta, because it’s my constant traveling companion, but I’ll do my best to keep it original!

Best of all, they had a box outside the albergue for unwanted objects to take away. I’ll have a few of my own to offer before long, but my eyes lit upon a beautiful Aragonese walking stick from Ordesa National Park. I’ve blown the dust off it and put it to good use. With any luck – if it isn’t pinched along the way – it will take me to Santiago, and perhaps beyond.



From the monastery, the hilltop castle of Castrojeríz comes immediately into view. It’s still a good hour’s walk until you reach the town proper, but it has to be one of the most scenic approaches of the Camino so far. I offered to take a photo for three Japanese pilgrims and they repaid the favour, meaning I will have at least one photo to show I walked the Camino this summer!


Well now, I’m here in Castrojeríz, and the kindly hospitalera has just returned from the hospital in Burgos. Her husband, with whom she runs the albergue, is currently walking the Camino himself. After a very light dinner last night I treated myself to a menu del día at a local mesón-restaurante. The barman must have clocked my La Mancha shirt because he brought out a lovely red wine from Tomelloso, just down the road from my family’s home. They didn’t have any sopa castellana – apparently it’s too hot for that – but the salmorejo he recommended was fantastic. So don’t worry, Mum, I’m eating very well out here!

I’ve showered, made the bed and claimed another stamp, so now that I’ve finished writing I’ll have a short siesta before buying supplies and exploring the hilltop castle this evening. What a perfect routine! BB x

Camino VIII: Lonely Oasis

I’ve heard various accounts of the pilgrim road across the Meseta. It is so often described as the most arduous stretch of the Camino, skipped by those pilgrims who find its endless expanses of featureless wheat fields uninspiring and/or dull. A dear friend and former companion on the road wrote to me yesterday, calling it “demotivating and mentally draining”. So I haven’t come out here under any illusions.

I’m only one day in, so I haven’t yet got the full flavour of the Meseta. But I’ll tell you what it has in abundance: silence. Spain isn’t a country that is known for peace and quiet – quite the opposite, in fact, being a regular contender for Europe’s loudest country – but if there is a corner of the kingdom where silence is as golden as the fields over which it presides, this is


It should be said, setting off a full hour before daybreak probably didn’t help (yes, I am definitely that pilgrim). The others in the hostel in Burgos must have found my coming-and-going at a quarter past five in the morning frustrating, though I did what I could to soften my steps. I would have thought I had learned my lesson last time, but for whatever reason I’m still working on the assumption that most places fill up quickly around midday.

Burgos was softly lit by a clouded moon as I took my leave of the Cid’s city. Beside the storks, those speechless sentinels of Spanish skies, I only saw two other living things on my way out: a street-sweeper hosing down the steps above the cathedral, and a solitary Japanese peregrino who took a wrong turn. Everyone else with half a brain – the city’s entire population and the rest of the pilgrims on the trail, for that matter – was still in bed, enjoying a few hours’ more sleep.


The sun was up by the time I reached the outskirts of Villalba de Burgos, the first stop on the road. Still no pilgrims, but the Guardian Civil made a couple of appearances as they patrolled the road in their car. Here I took my leave of the Arlanzón river, stopping only to refill my water bottle at a park fountain and to listen to the flute-song of a golden oriole concealed somewhere within the poplar trees.

The Meseta begins to unravel in earnest after the sleepy town of Tardajos, which I imagine presents a good introduction of what is to come. Half the town seems deserted, and this time that has little to nothing to do with the time of day. Squat, single-storey townhouses rub shoulders with taller, more modern homes, though in some cases it is just as much the latter that have their windows boarded up as the former.


I stopped at Rabé de las Calzadas to see if the local church were open. No luck. It looks as though the parish priest serves multiple towns, celebrating Mass first at one church and then another. You can sometimes get stamps in these spots, but it’s really candles I’m looking for – when I can, I like to say a prayer for my grandfather and great-grandparents, for whom I walk this road. They say the reason is that pilgrims would probably try to sleep in them for free and might not be as respectful of their lodging if they did. Which is understandable. So far this year, I’ve only found one I could enter. I’ll keep looking, though.

It’s a steep climb after Rabé up into the Meseta proper. The last green hills of Burgos give way to a sea of gold, unbroken at eye level but towered over by a host of wind turbines that make the place a dry parody of the North Sea: similarly featureless, though a great deal warmer.


I’m getting the feeling this is all coming across as rather maudlin. For a nature lover like me, however, this is bliss. If you can put a name to the sights and sounds around you, you’re never truly alone.

Since leaving Burgos, I’ve been accompanied most of the way by the friendly two-tone song of the stonechat. Families of three – a parent and two fledgelings – seem to pop up everywhere, unbothered by my passing in their tireless search for food. Warblers of every kind – willow, Sardinian, fan-tailed and Cetti’s – sing from the hedgerows, signalling the presence of a river long before it comes into view. Corn buntings, wagtails and jolly wheatears pop in and out of sight between the wheatsheafs. Swifts, swallows and martins fill the empty villages with sound, and hoopoes add a flash of brilliant black-and-white when disturbed in the parks and gardens along the way. In the vast Castilian skies, storks, kites, ravens and solitary griffons are a constant presence, and in the fields below, quail and turtle dove sing unseen, their purrs and whistles keeping the silence at bay. And butterflies of every colour and size are so abundant there’s a very real danger of stepping on them.

On the plateau above Hornillos, I even caught a glimpse of one of my favourite creatures of all: the slender, ghostly shape of a male Montagu’s harrier, quartering the fields like a runaway birdscarer. I haven’t seen one of those since my time in Extremadura, where they find the vast emptiness much to their liking.


I’ve come to a halt in arguably the strangest stop of the Camino so far. Falling prey to my own hubris, as I am often wont to do, I left Hornillos behind and pressed on to what several guidebooks call a “Camino favourite”, the remote Albergue de San Bol. Tucked away in a river valley just five kilometres shy of Hontanas, it is easily missed, and with so many pilgrims keen to race through the Meseta, that’s understandable. I got here at half twelve and found the place deserted, with a sign on the door saying it would be opened at two. I stuck around, taking the opportunity to wash my feet and sandals in the small pool and do some reading while I waited.

Five or six curious pilgrims came by to investigate. None of them have stayed. The first one, a German by the sound of him, asked about a place to fill up his bottle, shrugged and moved on. Another two came by, but went on their way not five minutes afterwards. A Dutchman made noises about staying on but disappeared without a trace while I was washing my clothes. Two Italians rocked up an hour later, who could easily have been my age… only, they were fresh out of school and keen to press on to Hontanas. By this point I’d already made the decision to stay, so I bid them addió and nailed my colours to the mast when at last the local hostalera showed up.

From her I learned the truth – the Camino has been quiet for a few days, but April and May were absolutely heaving this year. That’s probably due to the backlog of pilgrims like myself who haven’t been able to take the road for two years due to COVID. At this time of year, few pilgrims stop at this stage, unless they’re traveling in a group. Would I be alright if I were the only guest tonight, she asked?

Well, so much for my first “communal feel” albergue. On the plus side, it allows me one more day to really be my own boss. It isn’t often on the Camino that you get an entire dormitory to yourself, or the chance to watch the sunset in a place so idyllic as this. I’ve already paid for my bed for the night with the last of the coins I had on me (I really should have taken cash out in Burgos, as banks and ATMs are few and far between out here) so I’m going to kick back and really enjoy having this slice of paradise to myself for once.


There will be plenty of time to socialise on the Camino. But I’m in no hurry – if anything I’d like to avoid the crush in Santiago on Saint James’ day three weeks from now – so I will take my time and allow myself a few later starts from now on. And who knows? If I tarry a while, I might just find more stories in these slumbering villages than I would in the pilgrims tearing through this lonely stage.

Peace out. I’m getting some serious peace in tonight. BB x

Camino VII: Heart of Granite

I’m back! The cloud kingdom of the Basques is as impressive as ever, and since the earliest bus I could catch was the three-hour pueblo bus, I’m being treated to a great deal more of it than I ever imagined. It’s been a good three months since I was last here, but it looks and feels as though it were just the other day – like the Camino has just been waiting for me to return all this time. It’s a passing fancy, nothing more, but if I were to say I didn’t feel this country calling to me, I’d be lying.

It was a fairly busy flight out here, but if I thought I might encounter a handful of fellow pilgrims, I had another thing coming. From snatches of conversation (and a distinct lack of pilgrim paraphernalia) I’ve learned of the Bilbao BBK music festival that kicks off tomorrow. Apparently it’s one of Europe’s most popular? Shows how much I know!

Leaving a trio of Australian festival-goers and their awful mullets and porno moustaches behind (some girls on dating sites go mad for them, apparently, though God knows why), I bought myself an onward ticket to Burgos through the ALSA machine as there was nobody manning the three booths (“ni un Cristo en la taquilla”, in the words of the lady behind me). Two teenage girls in denim shorts propped their phone up against a pillar and did a TikTok dance, watched cautiously by a sub-Saharan umbrella salesmen on his way up the stairs. I treated myself to my first tortilla y tomate sandwich of the trip and made my way into the maw of the terminus in search of Lane 22.


Whoever designed the seating plan on this bus is even worse at maths than I am. There doesn’t seem to be any logic to it whatsoever. Seats 39-40 are followed by 45-46. The opposite seats are in the twenties. Four rows back, the sticker for seats 43-44 has been ripped off, but since they’re the only unnumbered seats on the bus, I can only assume I’m in one of the right seats. If this were a German bus, somebody would be having a fit (I’ve had altercations on German buses before over incorrect seat numbering). Fortunately, this is Spain, and nobody seems to care overmuch.


The bus is winding its way through the northern marches of Spain’s largest county, Castilla y León. A meandering river follows the road, and sleepy establishments dot the landscape: a host of cattle farms, ruined quarries, an ancient church or two, and an out-of-town brothel called ‘Las Vegas’ bearing a crude illustration of fishnet tights on the wall. For the last half hour we’ve been traveling in the shadow of the high cliffs of Lerdano, and beyond that… beyond that is the legendary Meseta. I’ve heard so much about it, I can hardly wait!

I’ve been trying to navigate the telescreen on the back of the seat in front of me. That nobody else except the noisy Moroccan family in front of me is doing the same should have been a clue. The tech is dated and hard to use. I was able to spin fifteen minutes of YouTube out of it after a few failed sign-in attempts (as it won’t let you scroll down to accept cookies), which meant I could enjoy the awesome soundtrack to The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom for a bit. It’s been a bloody good palliative for a breakup, and while it’s unlikely to knock Ocarina of Time from the top spot (so much love for that classic) it’s easily become my second favourite game in the Zelda series. Plus the layering in the soundtrack is so bloody clever. I’m hooked.


At Balmaseda, near the end of the Lerdano massif, I see my first vulture soaring overhead. It takes me a couple of seconds to see the rest of them: perhaps forty in all, racing toward a destination unseen behind me. I’m almost tempted to jump out the bus to investigate, if it weren’t for the very real possibility of ending up stuck in this backwater until the next pueblo bus, which could be a full twenty-four hours away. It’s a good thing I didn’t bring my camera, though, or I might just have chanced it.


The Moroccan family in the seats in front are making quite a scene. Or rather, their progeny are. The father appears to have given up on parenting his two year old, who has been screaming at the telescreen for the entire journey in a mixture of Spanish, Arabic and that nonsense parrot-speak that babies use. Dad is feigning sleep when he can. Half the remaining passengers appear to have found earplugs and put them to good use. Mine, unfortunately, are in the hold with my rucksack, so this is just something I’ve got to grin and bear. To add to the din, the veiled mother practically shouts down the phone to three friends in quick succession in a voice lucid enough for me to pick up what she’s on about, even with my rusty (and admittedly elementary) Arabic. Fourth time not so lucky: after a break she hears her phone ringing, picks it up, sees who is calling and promptly puts it back down. Seconds pass and it rings again. She lets it ring. Her husband casts a questioning side-eye her way, but their exchange is lost as the bus grinds around a corner. On the fourth attempt she rejects the call outright. The kid continues to wail at the telescreen, unable to understand the interface (which is all in English) or comprehend why hammering his tiny fists on the touchscreen keeps removing the game his father has long since given up reloading for him. So much for catching some Z’s on this bus.


We’ve stopped at a concrete-and-glass café near Villarcayo. It must be a nexus of some kind, because half the bus got off, to be replaced by just a handful of handsome locals. Not fifteen minutes later, we crossed the Ebro river, flanked on both sides by an even more handsome Sierra, its jaw-like granite crags sundered by the mighty river. There are few things more likely to make my jaw drop than a decent granite cliff. Maybe I’m just easily pleased, or maybe my heart is made of granite.

It doesn’t say in the Bible when God made Spain, but I figure it was somewhere towards the end of the week, because wherever I look I see such incomparable beauty. Which makes me just one more hopeless Romantic adventurer to this country before me. There’s quite the list…


Bloody hell, but it’s good to be traveling solo again. I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but it is definitely santo de mi devoción. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m addicted to the unfettered freedom of it. I’m booked ahead for the night due to my late arrival in Burgos, but beyond that, the future is an open book. And that’s just the way I like it.

Roll on three weeks of uncertainty! At the very least, it makes for fantastic writing material. BB x

Camino IV: To Be a Pilgrim

After three to four days on the Camino de Santiago, you really do start to become well-acquainted with the faces of your particular clan – that is, those who are walking the same stages as you and, by extension, staying in most of the same albergues, too.

I’ve fallen in with a group of younger pilgrims ranging from eighteen to thirty-four, and rather than being an unsociable bastard and cannonballing my way toward my next stop, I decided to hang back and take the road with them today. The result? A more leisurely, more talkative Camino – and ultimately, more fulfilling. In some senses, quite literally!


While I didn’t manage to track down Enrique the muleteer today (though there were clear signs on the road that his horse and mule had gone on ahead but recently), I did track down the Professor (the Californian I met on day one), the Sailor (a Spanish/Australian globetrotter and his wife) and the Carabiniere, an outrageous but loveable Italian former policeman for whom the saying “the man, the myth, the legend” might well have been coined. And because I had company on the road, I was much more inclined to stop for food, which made today’s long, sun-scorched hike across the plains of Castile a lot more enjoyable.


Top tip for pilgrims on this stage: just as you reach the village of Viloria de Rioja, the Parada de Viloria on your right as you hit the town is one of the friendliest places on the whole journey. They don’t have a menu peregrino, but rather the husband and wife who run the albergue cook up a simple lunch with a donations box on the side – you give what you can. The eggs, the bread and the tomatoes are all fresh and presumably their own produce, if not sourced from the farmers a few houses down the road. I had what was probably the best tortilla sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life today. Hell, I’d do that stretch again for another bite.


We left La Rioja behind today and started out upon what will become the Meseta Central. In a very real sense it already felt like we’d reached the middle stretch between Burgos and León – sun high overhead, the Camino cleaving close to the road, dust clouds and rolling wheat fields replacing former river valleys and distant mountain ranges. It’s stunning, but in a different way – a very Castilian kind of beautiful, austere and proud in its starkness.

Fortunately I had company to chew the fat with rather than lapse into the same clichés that other (and considerably better-versed) British travellers have used before me.


We arrived in Belorado shortly after two o’clock to find the town heaving with both pilgrims and locals – the festivities for Jueves Santo had just begun, and between that and the concentration of pilgrims in this small town, the albergue municipal was already fully booked. Luckily there were other options, and the place I ended up – Cuatro Cantones – could hardly have been a friendlier establishment. It even had a covered pool, which was a godsend after a twenty-three kilometre hike across the dusty plains.

Sopa de Ajo – a personal favorite!

I’m now over halfway through the walking stage of this attempt at the Camino. In two nights it will be over: I will have reached Burgos, at which point I will take my leave of my companions as some move on and others return home while I stay and rest in the city of the Cid. I will be immensely appreciative of the break, but no more so than my feet, which are not used to this much walking – even from somebody who doesn’t drive!

Tomorrow, we either roll the dice on San Juan’s one pilgrim hostel or push on in search of pastures new. Luck be an albergue tonight, I guess. BB x

Where to next…?

It’s getting mighty cold here in Tierra de Barros. I went to sleep clutching at my knees and somehow managed a decent night’s rest, only to wake up and find I’d left the window slightly ajar. I think I need to invest in a winter duvet more than a bike. I’m still not used to this system of alternating between summer and winter duvets. I almost miss the English climate. Almost…

We’re now three weeks away from the end of term. Yes, term ends on the 22nd December, and this year that falls on a Friday. Late, but not too late. Today’s a regular Monday. I’m sitting in the living room, easily the warmest room in the flat, having just turned the heating off after a generous couple of hours’ life-giving warmth. I have a private class with the kiddos at six (hopefully they’ll behave better this week – but then, they are only three years old), and I need to go shopping, as when I went this afternoon it took picking up the first item in the fruit and veg aisle for me to realise I’d left both my cash and my card at home.

So what’s to do? Well, it’s the time of year when I need to start thinking about where I’d like to be next year. Amongst other cards I have on the table – up to and including the JET programme in a few years’ time – the original plan still stands, which is to carry on with the British Council assistant jig for another year, albeit this time not in IES Meléndez Valdés, 06220 Villafranca de los Barros, Badajoz. The school has been wonderful to me and I could hardly have asked for a better host for two years, but I ought to spread my wings and discover somewhere new whilst I can. After all, Spain is a kingdom of many worlds: Extremadura may be one of her most beautiful, but there are other jewels in the crown!

So, for my own benefit – and for those who are interested in applying for the programme – I’ve decided to go through each region, in alphabetical order, to assess the strengths and drawbacks of working in each. Coming back to Villafranca was easy… it’s time to step back into the unknown!

(Ed.: I’ve used my own photos where possible – Andalucía, Cantabria, Extremadura and Madrid – but the rest are various stock images!)


Andalucía

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Where: South
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No (though Andalú, the regional accent, might as well be)
Visited?: Yes (far too often)

Ah, Andalucía. My old homeland! And, until recently, the region of Spain I knew best. In many ways the ‘classic’ Spain that comes to mind, Andalucía is – understandably – very oversubscribed as a destination. The Americans tend to have their eyes on it, and thanks to their system, which allows preferential treatment to consecutive-year assistants, they tend to end up there eventually, too (after doing time in equally beautiful backwater regions). Andalucía isn’t necessarily more spectacular than any of the other regions, but it offers a lot more bang-for-your-buck over the distance it spans: cities like Granada, Córdoba, Cádiz, Ronda and Sevilla ooze Romantic charm, and then there’s the natural beauty of the Alpujarras, Doñana National Park, the Sierra Morena and the all-too-often-overlooked beaches of the Costa de la Luz. It’s a fantastic region in which to fall in love with Spain, but because it’s so well known, it can be difficult to escape… unless, of course, you end up in somewhere like Olvera.

Probability: 7/10

Aragón

Where: Northeast
Weather: Cold
Dialect: Aragonese, Catalan (only in the high north and west)
Visited?: Yes

Alright, so a service station and a brief visit to Calatayud don’t exactly count as visiting Aragón per se… Aragón is a lot like Extremadura. Lots of people pass through it on their way to somewhere else. Zaragoza is probably its most famous city, but what of the rest of the region? Huesca in the north plays host to some of the most beautiful Pyrenean landscapes out there, and Teruel would kindly like to remind you that it does exist, despite what the rest of Spain will tell you. Aragonese, a local dialect, survives to the present, but as Spanish is the only ‘official’ language, there’s no cause for concern. High on the Spanish plateau, it gets mighty chilly in winter, but it is also the home of the Comarca de Monegros, a vast expense of semi-desert. And, like Extremadura, its comparatively unknown status makes it a very good place to go native.

Probability: 8/10

Asturias

Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

A popular choice amongst second-years, Asturias is where modern Spain was born. With pretty seaside towns, Alpine comforts and forested hills that actually go brown in autumn, in some ways it’s the perfect antidote to the Spanish south. For those used to endless heat, readily available paella and Moorish castles, it can seem like a very different world… which it is. The Spanish is very clear here, and it has some of the most beautiful beaches on the peninsula, even if they aren’t exactly the warmest. It’s a little harder to get to, but Santander’s airport offers cheap flights and is only just across the border. It is, however, a little on the expensive side.

Probability: 8/10

Cantabria

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Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

Cantabria, after Andalucía and Extremadura, is the region of Spain I’ve visited the most. No, scratch that. Technically speaking, Santillana del Mar is the third region of Spain I’ve visited the most, as for some reason I ended up there on all three occasions. A marginally less mountainous version of Asturias, Cantabria is a good choice for the British auxiliar who doesn’t want to leave behind too many creature comforts. Quesada pasiega, a local speciality, is unheavenly good (like most of the Iberian peninsula’s takes on the custard tart), and the stereotype is true: I’ve seen more cows and tractors here than in any other part of Spain. It doesn’t have the quasi-African feel of the south, but what it does have is a cheap and reliable train network, which is a huge plus in any world.

Probability: 5/10

Castilla La Mancha

Where: South-central
Weather: Hot/cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

Like Aragón, Castilla La Mancha is a region I can hardly claim to have visited, having spent just a few days in Toledo a few years back. If Andalucía is the Spain sold to tourists, Castilla La Mancha is the one you find in picture books. It’s Don Quijote country, and any bus ride from Madrid to the south will show you that: seemingly endless fields stretch as far as the eye can see, dotted in various locations with mountain ranges and the iconic windmills (see Consuegra, above). It’s also, coincidentally, the land of my ancestors; my grandfather was from Villarrobledo, a town near Albacete. An immense region where it is very easy to go native, but perhaps not the most awe-inspiring on offer. Toledo, however, is easily one of the world’s most beautiful cities…

Probability: 4/10

Castilla y León

Where: Northwest
Weather: Cold
Dialects: Leonese (in León province)
Visited: Yes

Make no bones about it. Castilla y León is gorgeous. It has its less interesting parts (the Camino de Santiago goes through them), and is in part a mirror of sister-province Castilla La Mancha to the south, but drawn across the meseta are some of Spain’s most striking landscapes. The Duero river gorge is breath-taking, as are the old Roman gold mines of Las Medulas (see above), and the granite-strewn scenery to the north of Burgos looks like something out of a Lord of the Rings film (but then, this was where El Cid was born). Here they speak the ‘purest’ Spanish, so you’ll have absolutely no problems with the language here. It’s clear, crisp and, whilst no slower than the usual Spanish machine-gun delivery, easier to understand than, say, any of the southern accents. The cuisine is also spectacular; in my humble opinion, most of Spain’s best food is its earthy, country food, and you’ll find a lot of it here. The cities of León, Burgos and especially Salamanca are wonders in their own right. Just watch out for the slow-burning Leonese separatist movement.

Probability: 8/10

Cataluña

Where: Northwest
Weather: Warm
Dialects: Catalan (official language)
Visited: Yes

This year would have been a very interesting year to be working in Spain’s black-sheep region. Even after the failure of Puigdemont’s half-hearted rebellion, I suspect it’d be worth a punt for the next few years. I’ve been to Barcelona a couple of times; school trips on both occasions, so I’ve barely begun to scratch to the surface of the place. The Costa Brava is undeniably beautiful, with stunning Mediterranean coves and sparkling white beaches. The Catalonian interior, however, is what grabs me: like neighbouring Aragón, Cataluña has some spectacular mountains. This is Serrallonga’s country, and I’d sure like to find out some more about the gang warfare between the Nyerros and the Cadells of old… if it weren’t for the language barrier. Now more than ever do I regret taking a Persian module over Catalan at university! You should bear in mind that Cataluña’s relative affluence makes it a little more expensive than the other comunidades, especially so in Barcelona itself. But if you’re after a more cosmopolitan experience, this is the place for you!

Probability: 6/10

Ceuta and Melilla

Where: North coast of Morocco
Weather: Hot
Dialect: No (though strong Arabic presence)
Visited: No

Despite the fact that I lived in Tetouan for an entire summer last year, I never did visit Ceuta. For one reason or another, something always came up to stop me going. Which is a shame, really: as the Spanish territories go, they’re pretty unique. Expect a very Moroccan vibe, with the North African kingdom literally within a stone’s throw at any given moment. If it weren’t for their size and the general cost and difficulty in getting to and from them if I ever wanted to travel, I’d probably sign up right away. It would, at the very least, give me an excuse to keep my Arabic polished. Most of the placements are in the two cities, though, which is a bit of a turn-off for me.

Probability: 4/10

Extremadura

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Where: West
Weather: Hot/cold
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

Of course, I could always stay put, but ask for a more northerly location: specifically, the green hills of Cáceres. There’s no denying Extremadura is by far my favourite region, and with good reason: it’s wild, it’s still relatively undiscovered, it’s lacking in other guiris and the people are some of the friendliest I’ve ever met. Plus, La Vera. Plus, Hornachos. Plus, the book. Heck, I’d stay just to be closer to Tasha and Miguel, who were pivotal in my return to Villafranca this year. With its welcoming vibe and its off-the-wall auxiliares, it’d be my top recommendation to anybody, though I’d concede you have to be prepared to be out in the sticks to be here. For me, however, it’s something of a safe option, and I’d much rather use this chance whilst I have it to explore some more of my grandfather’s beautiful country. Even if Extremadura is the best. Period. I’ll be coming back to this place for the rest of my life.

Probability: 7/10

Galicia

Where: Northwest
Weather: Cold
Dialects: Gallego (official language)
Visited: No

It rains a lot. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s look at Galicia. Galicia is the Ireland of Spain, where the country’s Celtic roots are strongest. I mean, when their folk bands deliberately cover songs made famous by The Corrs, the ties are hard to miss. Galicia is about as far from the Spanish south as you can get on the mainland, in both distance and culture. Gallego is a thing, but I’m not above learning a new language. The word on the street is that the auxiliar programme there is one of the best in the country, if not the best. That, combined with the cheapness of living and otherworldliness that this region offers, make it the standout competitor for my attention this time around. And I never thought I’d consider it, which makes it all the more appealing. After all, I had no idea what or where Extremadura was, once upon a time. I’d very much like Galicia to be my next miraculous discovery.

Probability: 9/10

Islas Baleares

Where: Mediterranean Sea
Weather: Hot
Dialects: Catalan
Visited: No

Mallorca, Menorca and Ibiza. Party destinations in summer… and for the rest of the year? Well, EasyJet and Ryanair are always offering such cheap flights that there must be something to do there in January… right? If it weren’t for the fact that they’re islands, I might seriously consider the Baleares. But I like having room to manoeuvre, and I don’t know whether I’d feel trapped on an island. Plus, they speak a lot of Catalan there. Once again, I wish I’d not gone chasing Persian down the rabbit hole.

Probability: 2/10

Islas Canarias

Where: Off the west coast of Morocco
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No
Visited: No

First things first: it’s quite a long way from Spain. The Canary Islands, like the Baleares, can seem a very remote posting. Cheap flights are readily available to the UK and elsewhere, thanks to a steady flow of tourists, but I’m not sure I’d be thrilled if I were posted there – not least of all because it’s quite difficult to distance yourself from the touristic side, upon which the Canary Islands depend. I wouldn’t mind going in search of the islands’ Houbara bustards though, or taking a stroll in the misty laurel forests of the Garajonay National Park.

Probability: 3/10

La Rioja

Where: North
Weather: Warm
Dialects: No
Visited: No

I’m going to be perfectly honest. I know next to nothing about La Rioja, except for the fact that it’s a small region with a justifiable fame for its wine. Given its positioning, I expect it’s a little more pricey than what I’m used to, but don’t hold me to that. I’ll leave you to discover La Rioja in my stead.

Probability: 2/10

Madrid

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Where: Central
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No
Visited: Yes

One word. No. The surrounding countryside of Madrid is unquestionably beautiful, no doubt about that, but I would rather leave the country than work in Madrid itself. As cities go, Madrid’s not so bad, but I’m a country boy; cities are for visiting, not for living in. Auxiliares posted in Madrid earn 1000€ instead of the usual 700€ to compensate for the higher living costs and also work 16 hours per week instead of 12, though after calculating the going rate for private lessons and such, I don’t half wonder whether that’s entirely fair – or even financially viable. No; for me, Madrid is just too big a move. I’d recommend the Sierra de Guadarrama, El Rey León and the Parque del Retiro, though (pictured).

Probability: 1/10

Murcia

Where: Southeast
Weather: Hot
Dialects: No
Visited: No

This year’s auxiliares are complaining about the fact we haven’t been paid for October and November yet. If what I’ve heard about Murcia is true, the auxiliares posted there are never paid on time. Murcia is one of Spain’s hidden gems: like Aragón and Extremadura, it often gets overlooked because it has more glamorous neighbours that have more of what it has and better. In Murcia’s case, that’s Valencia and Andalucía. I know a few lovely people from Murcia and I’d love to visit one day, but as year on year it becomes a larger wing of Almeria’s enormous European greenhouse, I find myself drawn to the greener, wilder parts of Spain.

Probability: 4/10

Navarra

Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: No
Visited: No

A former kingdom in its own right (which, you could argue, is an accolade held by most of the Spanish realms), Navarra sits at the feet of the Pyrenees as a less extreme though equally wondrous region in the Spanish north. A friend of mine was based in Tudela last year and had a great time there, so it seems to be to be a good place to work. Like the Canary Islands, it’s also more popular with Brits than Americans, so expect less encounters with scotch tape, candies and Fall. It’s also rather well situated, allowing easy access to several of Spain’s more attractive destinations.

Probability: 6/10

País Vasco

Where: North
Weather: Cold
Dialects: Basque
Visited: Yes

The Basque Country got a positive makeover recently in the film Ocho Apellidos Vascos and its sequel, not doing away with but helping to redirect attention from the ETA bombings of the past to the more attractive aspects of Basque culture. If the Catalans are independent, it’s nothing compared to the Basques, whose regional language – Euskera – is so far removed from Spanish that it feels as though you’ve skipped five countries rather than one region. Situated in the industrial north, the Basque Country plays host to much of Spain’s industry (just look at all the Basque banks), and is therefore afforded a more affluent lifestyle. That makes it more expensive, which is a drawback, but many would argue it’s worth it. The Basques are, after all, the stuff of legend…

Probability: 5/10

Valencia

Where: East
Weather: Hot
Dialects: Valencian
Visited: No

There’s a good deal more to Valencia than the corruption and the coast, even if that is the image most people have. I’ve never made it to El Cid’s triumphal city, it never having been quite on my radar, and though I have many friends who have been up and down the coast, I’ve never quite felt the pull to go. Another more costly region, Valencian – a variant of Catalan – is widely spoken here, though Spanish is also used in its capacity as the kingdom’s official language. It played a large role in the expulsion of the Moriscos though, and that’s something I’d like to look into, albeit over a short period of time. Maybe for holidays, but for me, not for work.

Probability: 3/10


I’m more or less decided on the northwest, but I’m still open to ideas. Now that Senegal is an option for language assistant placements, it’s that little bit harder to say no to the world beyond Spain (that would have turned my world upside down if it had been an option in my second year. I would very probably have dropped Arabic, studied French and continued to wing it with Spanish). However, a promise is a promise, and I’m determined to do what I can to become truly fluent in Spanish, however long it takes, wherever it leads me.

The deadline for next year is 12th February 2018. I have a couple of months to decide. BB x

Tractor Beam

Andalucia and Extremadura have plenty in common. They’re both southern, they’re both gorgeously hot and sunny most of the time and the language in both of them borders on the incomprehensible. So you can understand why I applied for both when I got myself into this auxiliar malarkey just over a year ago. My third choice, unmentioned since my very first blog posts back in May, was Cantabria. Land of cows, snow-capped mountains, green hills and tractors. The Iberian Alps, the Spanish Yorkshire. About as far away from the dusky south as you can get. So what in Creation drove me there this weekend – besides a frustratingly slow bus?

I’ll put it like this. You can’t keep a good man down, and you most definitely can’t shut up a wanderer in his house for long.

Besides hopping down to Olvera for Carnaval, I’ve done no traveling since Madrid back in the first week of January. That’s only a couple of months back, granted, but compared to the madness of last term, I’ve been doing a lot of nothing of late. In any case, I got a bad case of itchy feet last week and, watching the weather forecast, I made a spontaneous decision to visit my dear friend Kate in Cantabria – on the other side of the country. She’s working as an auxiliar up there and we’ve got much the same setup, right down to the state/private school split. If you haven’t already been keeping up with her adventures, check them out over at Langlesby Travels. Besides being jolly good fun, it makes for a lot easier reading than most of my biweekly outpourings!

I’d planned on two full days up north, as for the first time since I started trawling the site last year there was a super-convenient BlaBlaCar bound for Santander at midnight on Thursday, meaning I’d be in Cantabria for seven o’clock in the morning. It was just too good to be true…!

And so it proved. After a fourth BlaBlaBlunder where the driver changed his mind and shifted the drive six hours earlier, bang in the middle of my afternoon classes, any hopes of arriving early were dashed, so I resigned myself instead to one day in Cow Country and one whole day on the bus. Thanks, BlaBlaCar. I feel like it’s important to point out that as a system it’s by no means foolproof, as so many headstrong young things would have you think. It’s done me some very good turns and I do believe it really is the way forward, but it’s screwed me over in equal measure. You win some, you lose some. In that sense, perhaps BlaBlaCar is a good metaphor for life.

The journey began, as they so often do, in Mérida, where I found myself on the Roman bridge, scanning the reeds for a ridiculously early little bittern. Villafranca and its endlessly repetitive surroundings lack a viable soul spot, which Mérida offers in the ever-changing Guadiana. Mérida may always seem to be lacking something, but the river has never let me down. There’s something beautifully elemental about rivers. This one in particular is never the same. The first time I saw it, the river was playing host to several families of purple gallinules, frolicking about in the reeds. A month later the whole stretch was clogged with water hyacinth. Three weeks after that, half of it had been siphoned off and the rest was being heaped onto the banks by a team of gumboots. This weekend, the river was barely ankle-deep, with only the deepest stretch in full flow – only to be magically restored to life two days later. Oh Guadiana, you baffle me.

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What gives, Guadiana?

The journey north was fairly uneventful. I spent almost all of it trying to read Cavell’s Moghul, but more often than not staring out of the window at the changing scenery and, before sundown, came to the conclusion that Cáceres province truly is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. If you don’t believe me, visit Plasencia. If Spain has an Eden outside of Doñana, it may be found there.

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Snow on the mountains in Castilla y Leon

Despite reassurances from the driver that we were perfectly on schedule, we still pulled into Torrelavega a full twenty minutes late – which, coincidentally, is the exact amount of time I’d factored on giving myself to get from the bus station to the train station. Sprint as fast as I did – I may not be much of a sportsman, but I consider myself half-decent over a short distance – I arrived at the station just as the last train was leaving. Last year’s BB would have cried in frustration at this oh-so predictable turn of events; this year’s BB shrugged it off and chartered a taxi. It ended up costing me almost as much to go the last few kilometres to Cabezón de la Sal as it did to come all the way from Mérida, and at least three times the train fare, but that’s taxes for you. I’ve told you before… I don’t like taxis. Period.

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The River Tagus in the plains of Caceres

At any rate, I made it to Cabezón de la Sal and, after wandering aimlessly in the dark, lost in the Alpine beauty of the place, Kate finally found me, introduced me to her friend Almu and I had my southern accent swiftly corrected. That can only mean one thing: all those weekends in Olvera are paying off. They’ll make a guiritano out if me yet.

The following day’s adventures require a post in their own right, so I’ll give them that much. Keep your eyes peeled for the second installment! BB x