I am sitting in the small bar from where I came to obtain the albergue keys earlier today, enjoying local wine with Eva the cyclist and a Spanish couple who like me are walking the Camino. We are swapping stories and I am seeking tips from the Spaniards - they are clearly familiar with Salamanca - as we peruse the simple menu. Eva asks me about Marion; we have both spent time with this German lady in the last few days and it seems Eva is expecting to see Marion here tonight in Morille. I tell her that I messaged Marion earlier today to check on her and to tell her where I was heading. I tell her I haven’t heard from her. And I tell her that Marion had previously told me that tonight she was staying at the even smaller village of San Pedro de Rozados - three miles back across pebbled track and barren countryside - where there was a relatively luxurious hostel.
Eva mentions having heard that Marion had taken a wrong turning earlier in the day. She is clearly concerned so I say I will ring the hostel and confirm all is OK. This is after all quite a remote part of the country and a wrong turning might take you even further from civilisation. I ring. I speak to the lady who I suppose runs the hostel. No, she is not at San Pedro de Rozados, she is currently in Salamanca so she cannot say who is at the hostel. She simply gives potential guests an access code when they ring. That at least is my understanding from my Spanish conversation.
Eva provides an alternative understanding. She seems to think the hostel at San Pedro might be shut and remains concerned with this lack of resolution. And concern is contagious: I too now have a small knot of worry beginning to form, although it is offset by the knowledge that in Marion's favour she speaks excellent Spanish and that a Belgian I shared that hilltop view with earlier today said he too was staying at San Pedro; a quick walker, he set off before me then and he has not seen need to come here now. Nevertheless there is still that wrong turning, the fact Marion was finding it hard going and those unreplied to messages, which seems out of character for this lady.
I suggest that I take Eva's bike and cycle back to San Pedro de Rozados to check at the hostel. Eva is happy with this until the Spanish couple point out that it would be more sensible to ring Marion in the first instance. Seemingly, a world of communicating by message can make you miss the obvious. I ring her number. A man answers. A moment of disquiet on my part. I press on in Spanish and begin to explain the situation but I am stopped and a heavily accented voice asks if I can speak in English. It turns out I am speaking to Marion's husband in Germany. I explain the situation, trying to tread that narrow line of telling him of our concerns while trying to avoid raising any for him. But he puts my mind at ease: Marion rang him earlier to say she was safely at her destination and all is fine. I had been wondering if her mobile somehow defaulted to her home under certain circumstances. Now I am wondering how, if that were the case, she could have actually rung her husband. I happily pass on the news to the others and we discuss how it might be that by ringing Marion I end up speaking to her husband. And as we do an exhausted looking Marion walks into the bar.
We sit Marion down and I take her bag to the albergue while she recuperates. Afterwards she tells her story. It had been a hard, slow day for her and although she had eventually arrived at the hostel she had been unable to get in (despite hearing noises inside). She had rung the hostel phone number but with no luck and so had decided to head to Morille but had spoken to her husband to say everything was fine despite the situation. How and why her phone had defaulted to her home number she had no idea.
It is not until the following morning that this final sliver of confusion is sorted. Not only had Marion no idea how I had contacted her husband but she had not received my text messages. I check the number I am using against the card she gave me two days before and I have made no error: the mobile number is correct in my address book; the home number I had not bothered with. But to Marion it is obvious: everyone knows, she tells, me that numbers beginning 07 are landlines and numbers beginning 01 are mobiles. Everyone in Germany I tell her, but nobody outside. I suggest she might want to distinguish between the two numbers on her card in future.
This is the story of a silly but understandable mistake. It is also a mildly amusing story of chaos and disorganisation. But for me it is more a story of support, of how people who hardly know each other look out for each other, of mutual concern and mutual support. It is a story of the Camino.
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