Day 14

I wandered through Bolea before leaving. The church in the centre of town was dedicated to Our Lady of Loneliness and Anguish, It was locked but I had no need for her anyway. The big one, towering out over the village, was open but had an entrance fee because It had treasures inside. I didn’t enter there either, I preferred to spend my money on some coffee in the bar that had a treasure of its own: a beer tap crafted out of clay, shaped like a hand holding a branch and in front of it, on the bar, a glass of water with a basil plant (for San Lorenzo, see former post). In Calle Paradis, Paradise street, I found a man lingering on the street corner, looking up at the sky, then down, and up again. “Maybe I should follow this street,” I told him and when he looked at me puzzled, “to see if Paradise is down the road.” He laughed and said, pointing at the windows over the street name:”I was born there so if it is, I am very close to it, maybe that is why I returned.” He was retired and had lived most of his life in Lleida because of work but since a couple of years he was back here. He spoke about his daughter who lived in California for many years and was now in Barcelona. A lot of people I meet talk about their children, the most important achievement in their lives.
The trail to Loarre wasn’t very steep but again a gravel road, making C.’s wheels feel like squares instead of circles. They are solid tires, so at least I never have to be afraid of punctures. I saw a white horse, then a castle and looking for a knight, I decided I was my own knight in sweaty soft armour. The castle of Loarre was too far away to visit but even from a distance it looked impressive. It is the best kept Romanesque fortress in Europe, built largely during the 11th century when its position on the frontier between Christian and Muslim lands gave it strategic importance. In the far distance, facing the castle, was an army of modern windmills. It wasn’t the first time on this walk that Don Quijote crossed my mind.
In Loarre I was welcomed by a brass band, the Fiesta Major had just started and everybody was gathered on the village square, somebody gave me a beer and somebody else told me I had to hang around for the migas, a dish traditionally made with stale bread and other ingrediënts. I didn’t, there were still some kilometres ahead and another hill to climb to get to the village of Sarsamarcuella. And some 70-million-year-old dinosaur eggs to look at just before closing time in the Paleontologic Lab of Loarre.
I thought of Paradise street and purgatory when I dragged C. up the last stretch of road leading into Sarcamarcuella just before sunset. The village was a dream and I got the keys for another empty Albergue Pelegrino from a young man who didn’t insist on a Credential. The first half of the night I couldn’t sleep because my feet felt as if somebody was sticking needles into them. Next morning they were better and in hindsight I am glad I didn’t know what was coming up.