Day 7: Villamajor de Monjardin to Torres del Rio

Sanitary napkins make great dressings for badly blistered feet, I assured George, the cop from Ireland. After a short hobble around own to try and find a beer, my Irish Camino brother and I planted ourselves in an outdoor bar. Soon, our Camino family assembled, all rested from an afternoon nap in one of two nice albergue.

Michael the Welshman holds Camino court with Kurt and George. 

The next morning I left the town of Villamajor de Monjardin with the up-before-dawn Austrians, Danes, and Germans. I've found my hiking pace is fastest with this crowd and I love hiking as the sun rises and the birds begin to sing. I knew, however, that I probably would not see George again. He planned to take a rest day or two. I left him with plenty of panty liners!

Mud and stone home.

The walk was long and warm but through such stunning topography that I forgot about coming into Los Arcos, so the sudden entrance into another Medieval town was a stunner. Religious symbolism abounds and the long history of multicultural neighborhoods is written across lintels and coats of arms.  For thousands of years Jewish, Muslim, and Christian people have lived within these city walls, sometimes at war with each other and sometimes at war with the outside world.

Muhadin stone carvers employed by Templars left their mark.

The town of Torres del Rio was the same - all of sudden, there it was. The origin shaped Templar church was right outside my window at the albergue. At one time a mosque, then a synagogue, then a church, this is an odd place full of symbolism to confound even an expert.

Door lintels in Torres del Rio.

Although it is our stop for the night, there is nothing to see or do in this almost-ghost town. A local tells me that the Spanish Civil War is still with the old folks, and that the Franco dictatorship has left an indelible mark on their hearts. I am prepared to study Medieval history, but this brings me up short. Anna and Kurt tell me about the international armed forces that rushed in to send mercenaries to help in the 1930s, Holland especially. An old women sat next to me on a bench. She sang a song over and over again, rapping her cane on the pavement. Did she lose a husband? A brother? A father? Was she made to work for one of the brutal agricultural co-ops?

Mystery and hidden history - some distant, some recent.