Day 14 - Zafra to Torremejia (29 miles)

En Route to Villafranca

From Zafra it is just under forty miles to Merida where I plan to spend an extra day to rest and to visit what I understand are impressive ruins from the original Roman city. Last night I had decided to walk this in three days. This morning in a moment of madness I decided to try two, sleeping out if I had to.

It was a day of two distinct parts. The first twelve miles or so to Villafranca - the day's route for everyone else leaving Zafra - was straightforward. I walked it mostly with a Dutchman. His company and the cool of the morning made for easy going; we had covered the distance well before midday. But I was then on my own.

It was now that the day got harder. Without the distraction of company, and with the sun creeping ever higher, the next seventeen miles presented challenge enough. But it was also seventeen miles of flat, exposed landscape, nothing but emptiness or young stumpy vines and low olive groves either side, offering no shade and made worse still by the major part of that distance being on a long, straight and featureless Roman road.

As I headed north, a hot and draining sun permanently on my back, I tried not to think about how far I had already come or how far I had to go. Longing for an end to the day would only sap my will and my energy, and the distance would not diminish by wishing it away. I have no choice but to walk it. If not today then tomorrow. And today would be better: a warm bed and food the bargain for my effort, a day's delay and a potentially uncomfortable night outside avoided. 

As I crossed this largely empty terrain I tried to occupy myself in looking for diversions, finding pleasure in the smallest of things: if a breeze picked up I focused on its coolness; as I passed lines of the young vines I admired their linear uniformity and their changing perspective as I walked; and I took notice of ant trails across the path and the other insect life normally lost to bigger, more obvious distractions. This was an effort on my part to live in the moment and to keep at bay that draining sense that I was making no progress in an unchanging and nondescript landscape: the white track of the camino stretched straight and unchanging to the horizon and the horizon never seemed to get closer. That afternoon’s walk was as much an exercise in the mental as the physical.  

I did have the option to sleep rough if need be, and had decided a point where I would make my decision. Deep down though it was an option I wanted to avoid. Occasionally the idea would drift into my thoughts tempting me; an uncomfortable night but immediate and welcome rest a seemingly worthwhile swap for gaining evening comfort at the price of further effort from a tired body under a hot sun. However, on cresting the brow of a gentle hill I saw in the distance, and nestled against the distant valley side, the brown hazy outline of the small town of Torremejia, the next stop before Merida. Although still over two hours away, sighting it provided the lift I needed and from that point I determined I would be in the albergue that night.

Another two hours of walking, aided by a short doze in the shade of an olive tree, and I was there, tired and sore but happy. It had been a long day but as I walked into the small town albergue I met Spanish and German walkers I knew from previously and took them up on an offer to join them later in the albergue kitchen for dinner before finally getting my head down in readiness for the short walk to Merida in the morning.