Today we got up at 2, in more of a hurry than Toretto on a motorway, knowing that a marathon of a route lay ahead of us. Fr Ferran had prepared a surprise for us: instead of one hour of prayer and silence, today there would be four. As a result, Nacho Campmany has decided that from now on he doesn’t want any more surprises.
Unlikely as it may seem, all the pilgrims survived the time of reflection in perfect speechlessness. It was a desert experience, in which we were invited to find ourselves by listening to the voice of God.
The exercise was a success, although (as was to be expected), after walking for hours without saying a word, in the dark and having woken up at a time when the cockerels were still in full REM sleep, it’s only logical that the members of our herd of walkers looked as if we had taken 4 Ventolins with chloroform before setting off.
Precarious consequences of this included Claudia Arroyo’s involuntary lane change and the Cro-Magnon technique of Beto Gel and Martí Ramió, who slapped their own faces to pieces to stay awake. In fact, at the beginning we were walking in perfect single file, but we ended up taking over the whole road as if we were a picket line. Mind you, on the roads of La Mancha, at this hour, there’s less circulation than in a corpse, so, between our caution and our guardian angels, the risk is 0.
Although it was a long stage, we completed it quickly, after two pit stops where Luis, Jaime and Jose Maria served us water and fruit, as fresh as summer rain. An episode worth mentioning is Martina Vitagliano’s outfit: for dozens of kilometres she wore a towel as a skirt so as not to burn her pins.
When we arrived, we enjoyed a well-deserved shower and then some members of the Orden del Sacer invited us to lunch (even José, the mayor of this very welcoming village, came along). The rice with meat that Germán made, with Alfonso’s help at the stove, made us human again; the happy faces as we came into the dining room were every bit as good as the ones children make when they walk into the toy floor at El Corte Inglés.
A Coca-Cola now means liquid happiness, and a slice of cured pork loin, manna from heaven itself. The highlight of lunch was Norah González, who, after a close contest, beat Luis and Jaume at wolfing down prawns (enough to assemble the whole cast of Shark Tale).
We had exposition and Mass in the village church, where Don José Carlos Mora told us that we are a living witness for the villages we pass through and encouraged us to keep going to the end with a smile from ear to ear. At the end of the Eucharist we went to a little hermitage of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which most of the pilgrims from these parts heading to the shrine of the same name pass by, to sing a Rociero-style Salve Regina there.
Dinner was hearty and with a slight touch of sadness, because our official catering supplier is saying goodbye after this last service. “Josep Maria Torrelles”: we will always remember that name with a little tear bungee-jumping off our eyelids. Thank you for these dinners, which have restored us more than any protein shake; we commend you to God with every stride.
And with that the day comes to an end. Good night, family. Over and out.