The hotel provided a self-service breakfast of sliced white bread, cheap margarine, jams, orange and coffee. When toasted the processed bread was okay, still massively superior to the bread used to create the worst tostado in the world. We breakfasted with our Camino friends and got to know Lassa a bit more. We all like him very much! He’s cheerful, funny and bright. The breakfast conversation quickly turned to Brexit. All agreed that Britain was coming out as utterly bonkers. Lassa generously shared a story of Denmark recently showing it’s own bonkersness – (a new law sends foreign criminals to a tiny island somewhere!!!) presumably to try to make us feel better. Lassa has walked the Camino Frances even more times than me and we shared some stories and memories of places we have both passed. We headed back to our rooms to pack. The hotel guy gave a tap on my door and poked his head around.’Who was going to wash-up???’ he asked! Ooops. Everyone had gone so it was down to Lassa and the Russells. Apparently for 15 euros a head you don’t get a cleaner!

The walk today was long – 24km! We knew there was a village about 6km further on, the place that held the now infamous Rodriguez hostel, the worst place on Plata… We headed there along a winding track through flat farmland. By the time we arrived we were ready for breakfast number 2 but after walking around the village a few times (this took 40 seconds) we concluded there was no where to get a tortilla or tostado. We found one bar, a grubby affair with no food on offer, and we hastily drank our coffees, eager to escape this depressing place. There was a small shop on the way out of town and we stocked up on essentials to sustain us on this mighty hike ahead. Bread, tuna, tomatoes, cheese, ail-olli, crisps, peanuts, oranges and chocolate. Never shop when hungry! We devoured the bread and cheese immediately, always looking to lighten our load, but then dispatched Barbara to purchase another loaf! 🙂 The track took us out past fields of old, gnarled vines about to break in to bud – the first signs of wine country we have seen on the Plata and weaved through fields of grass and wheat. The guidebook had warned us that a stream was known to frequently flood and sure enough we came upon it, but found a rather dodgy looking home-made bridge to cross, constructed out of palettes. The path narrowed and turned to grit, leading us in a straight and boring line for several kilometres. We decided chocolate was needed and sat down to a feast of biscuits and cakes (stolen from breakfast this morning!) and a giant bar of almond chocolate.

Sick but happy, we continued on. The path widened and took us through open countryside, fields of crops and smallholdings, before leading us in through the small town of Pueblo de Sancho Perez, and then along busier roads in to the larger town of Zafra. Just as the threatened rain arrived we spotted the only albergue in town Albergue Van Gogh.

It looked great from the outside, an imposing corner building with a turret. The beautifully restored wooden staircase leading up to the albergue also held promise. some how, despite it’s handsome architecture, we didn’t like it. The hospitelero was grumpy and the place lacked love. The main dorms, living area and kitchen were on the first floor, and a few pilgrims were bustling about, including our pals Inga and Martina. However, we were packed off in to the attic or the ‘family room’ The attic was sparse, cold and and uninviting, with little lighting. Outside was a huge roof terrace which would have actually been superb on a warm balmy evening, with views over the town.

But on this great and rainy night, there was little to enjoy in this depressing albergue. We headed in to town,feeling a little miserable. We needed a vino and a tasty meal. The bars on our doorstep looked a bit rank but further in to town we spied a Chinese restaurant! 6 days of pasta and cous cous meant we were mega excited to spot this potential gourmet paradise. Perhaps our luck was changing for the better. We had a vino in the old town before heading back for our oriental feast. The skies opened – a torrential downpour soaking us through. Our socks were wet but our spirits barely dampened as we skipped through the town dreaming of chow-mein and lemon chicken.

Our bedraggled trio arrived at the Chinese to find it closed. Distracted by this catastrophic event the rain snick in to our spirits, leaving them as dampened as our now soggy socks. We trudged through the rain back to the hostel, passing nowhere open to eat en route, until we were basically outside Van Gogh’s. Luckily there was a restaurant in the hotel opposite so, hungry and with no other options, we decided to eat there. We found Inga and Martina waiting inside, and soon Lassa appeared too. The kitchen would be open at 20:30. As it happens we actually had a pretty good meal here. For just 10 euros including wine we had a starter, main and desert before returning to our attic.