Today began with a drastic plot twist for the pilgrims, as unexpected as the ending of Primal Fear, and it left us with a bad taste in our mouths that could rival the one you get when the credits of Nightcrawler roll. The thing is, they told us, once we were already up, that today it would be 38 km instead of 30 (just like that, quick and without anaesthetic).
There was nothing for it but to start walking, all kitted out in sweatshirts. In these last stages, in which the Extremadura night has turned into an industrial freezer, a coat has become essential if you don’t want to reach the breakfast stop with a dying cow’s cough and fingers the size of sausages. Even so, today was harder than usual: we met more wind than in all the scenes of Twister put together.
In the first few kilometres there was a critical moment, when a stench slapped our nostrils, as nauseating as rotten horse meat mixed with thioacetone. If you don’t know what that is, all you need to know is that it smells so bad it can make people faint 500 metres away (you’re welcome for the Trivial Pursuit question). In short: it stank worse than Shrek’s armpit.
The stop coincided with the waking of the king of the stars, and we did the reading about the sending of manna to the people of Israel. Then we set off again and the pace picked up, not out of high spirits, but because shots kept ringing out across the fields and hunting grounds we were crossing, as if we were in Saigon. Luckily, the bullets stayed well away from our path and there were no casualties in the peloton.
When we arrived at the sports centre where we were to spend the night, a large number of parishioners were waiting for us, including young people who will also be going to WYD. Once we had settled in, Nacho Campmany came into the men’s toilets looking far from friendly and with a blunt statement: “Lads, there’s a rat in here who didn’t bring any clothes and goes around stealing trousers.” After a lot of rummaging, Fer Marqués “found” his schoolmate’s garment, and tomorrow Nacho won’t have to resort to walking in his swimming trunks like Jaume Morer, who lately has been wearing his for longer than a lifeguard.
After lunch and a well-deserved siesta, we went to one of the 4 churches in this town. There we had adoration, a meditation with pro-tips from Fr Toni and Mass presided over by Don Juan Manuel. The parish priest’s emotion could be felt from the very first moment. What’s more, many parishioners came to be with us with the Lord. Carlos, the parish altar server, also came to help and keep an eye on everything. We were also joined by a priest who had just celebrated 50 years of priesthood: he had heard about the pilgrimage and didn’t want to miss it. These aren’t the usual hours for these parts, because at that time of day not even the birds fly, it’s so hot. At the end we took photos with those who had come to the Eucharist and with the young people from Don Benito who will be going to WYD.
Finally, to make up for the morning’s unpleasant surprise and balance the scales, they invited us to dinner at a restaurant: entrecôte, chips and fried eggs. During the meal, Santi Salvador, Kyril Salazar and Nacho Campmany (this lad has a finger in every pie) became close friends with 5 local lads whom, God willing, we’ll see in a couple of weeks in Lisbon. To round it all off, a get-together in the middle of the restaurant livened up by the classic chords of Fer Marqués. Many of those having a drink there joined in the singing. We are still amazed by the welcome we get from everyone wherever we go. This time Julia and her daughter Ana were incredibly attentive to us, with everything thought out so that we would be as comfortable as possible. And so we were: they brought us bakery bread to eat and saved us a place to sleep with air conditioning. How beautiful the Church is, a family wherever we go.
That’s all the news for now, family. 11 nights left until we sleep in Lisbon, and counting down. Peace.