Day 13: Nájera to Grañon
No one slept well in Nájera, and that can make for a bitchy pilgrim. It can also make a pilgrim careless. New rule: if you don’t see a yellow arrow within 15 minutes, stop, turn around, GO BACK.
We left the shabby-chic albergue unrested. Saturday nights in Spain are festive, noisy affairs, with the streets a symphony of arguments, breaking bottles, and shouting. Unfortunately, the action took place below our open window. And dares close the window on a 35°C night? So we waited for the dawn, and hit the road walking to Grañon.
If all had gone as planned…follow arrows, walk, stop, eat, walk again, stop and sleep…I might not have much to report. But…first, the day was H.O.T. Hot. 
Then we passed through a town that even the Brierley guide wanted to skip over. Cirueña reminded me of The Walking Dead, except we were the living passing through zombie land. Creepy. We passed a golf course on our way into this modern city with brand new developments lining empty streets. It appeared that more than 50% of the residential homes and businesses were…vacant. Some Se Vende signs (For Sale) hung from walls. Most stood empty, curtain-less, windows stared like empty cow eyes, rain water stains formed aprons under window sills. Wired paper Christmas garland mats woven through chain link fences provided privacy from pilgrims. Spiritless. 
A few men pulled golf carts. Some nodded at us. Most looked away. A public pool served as a cold community hearth, and we heard laughter as kids splashed and played in the water. On the far side of town, a couple children played on a short zip-line. These were the only signs of life. There were few cars. No dogs and cats ran in the street. No convenience stores or vending machines or water fountains with potable or nob-potable water. 
On the outskirts of this modern city sat the old city. I breathed again when I saw the deteriorating but familiar and comforting Spanish clay roofs. A couple of signs advertised a bar and albergue only 100 metres away. We found a working fountain in the old city, and we refilled our bottles, rinsed our hands, and soaked my Buff to wrap around my neck. Then we beat a path outta there!
But our troubles had just begun. Once out of Stepford, we walked into the countryside. Grain. Grain. Grain. Butterflies fluttered around me for hours, attracted, I believe, to my bright Columbia travel shirt. We followed the path, and talked about that creepy town. We comforted a crying Swiss girl dealing with blisters and offered water. We took a wrong turn.
Now you interpret this next experience. 
Andrew and I turned left, and headed for a tree, which provided the only shade for many kilometres. A group of religious German pilgrims had stopped under the tree to picnic and pray. Their lunch fare spread around them like the last freaking supper. We and they had been leap frogging each other all day. We walked and complained. They walked and prayed. We stopped in their shade for a moment. They disapproved, glad when we moved on. They let us head down the wrong path away from Camino. The pilgrims we saw in the distance were…farmers! We were lost, and the Germans knew it. 
Andrew and I walked nearly ten kilometres in the wrong direction, along paths reserved for farmers and their machinery. We dove into thistles to escape a combine that needed to pass. We travelled into farmer territory, and surprised the farmers as much as they surprised us with their unforgiving machines along pinched pathways.
Rule number two: The Camino always passes the local church, regardless of its grandeur or disrepair. In the distance sat Santa Domingo de Calzada, our destination, although we later (foolishly) opted to walk to Grañon. The many kilometres along asphalt tenderized our feet and shins. Once in Santa Domingo de la Calzada, we found ourselves in an “undesirable” part of town. Children pointed at us. A man dressed completely in white, who sat cross-legged on the grass praying(?), could not tell us where the Camino was. He had never heard of the Camino! It was our second experience with creepiness that day.
We continued on to the church spire, collapsed over a beer, and recognized Cas and Melissa crossing the plaza. Ahhhhh! We were at home on the Camino again, no thanks to the traveling German prayer group and the praying man all dressed in white. 
We were discouraged and blistered, but decided on a quick piss against a hay bale and another several kilometres into Grañon. Another mistake. Nothing was open. It was Sunday, after all, and this is Spain. However, we went upstairs to the only open local bar we could find, and walked in on a kind of old men’s club. We caused a stir, but enjoyed a wonderful impromptu meal of pork, salad, dessert, and cervesas, prepared for us by a wonderful woman sympathetic to our pilgrim needs. She covered our small table with a paper cloth, made us a delicious dinner from scraps, and hunted down bread when she was sure she had none. A blessing.
I can still see their smug smiles as we headed away from their shade tree, long after ten unnecessary kilometres and a twelve hour day on foot. I don’t understand, but, finally, it comes down to our inattention…not theirs. But I’m grateful for those that yell “peregrinos!” and point out the Way when we are confused. That is the way of The Way, and it is both prayer and blessing for the pilgrim. Amen!
¡Ultreia!
~Penny