The Pace of Nature: Castilblanco de Los Arroyos to Almaden de la Plata

 "Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Via de la Plata Stage 3

After a sleepless night in a dormitory owing to the usual suspects of snorers, washroom trips, and Kindle reading, as well as just the general sounds of 28 people in a single room. As such, we got up at 5:30 AM as people began to repack and set out for the day.  Seeking to respect those who might still be sleeping, we picked up our bags and sought to quickly slip downstairs to prepare and pack.  Several other pilgrims had decided to get up at the same time as us, and they had moved into the kitchen to make breakfast and get ready, obviously trying to be considerate to those still trying to sleep.

However, they proceeded to make quite a racket whistling while they made food and heated water in the communal microwave. Soon, the sounds of the microwave door being slammed shut and the electric beeping resonated audibly throughout the building.  Not wanting to disturb others, we sat on a bench outside the albergue to have our breakfast of instant coffee, bread, and jam.  To our surprise, it was actually quite chilly!

Return to the Camino

We left the albergue in the darkness, heading out down quiet streets that were lined with white buildings and lit with pools of light shed by lamps that looked like lanterns.   Crossing Castilblanco, we could see the silhouettes of two pilgrims ahead of us, and as we wound through the streets, they were joined by several more.  When we saw the black expanse of countryside stretching out before us at the edge of town, we decided to duck into an open bar for a café con leche as we wanted to enjoy the cool morning air and the sunrise without being in a conga line of other walkers.  The bar was full of last night's patrons, and the coffee was not the best we'd tasted, but it was warm, and there was a nice cat on the premises to keep us company.

As we went to settle the bill that morning, I suddenly realized my wallet - usually tucked away deep in my backpack - had been rifled through and the cash was gone. A quick check of Sean's bag confirmed the same: someone had gone through his things as well and taken his hidden backup funds. I recalled having had a strange feeling about my backpack when we returned to the dorm the night before, but at the time, I had brushed it off as road weariness. Now I knew that someone had, in fact, gone through our backpacks and stolen from us.

The bad coffee we had ordered carried an equally bitter aftertaste as the reality of the theft sank in. Most of our funds had vanished overnight. While we were grateful that our passports, travel documents, and camera equipment had been left untouched, the loss of money still cast a heavy shadow on the day.

Of course, some might argue that the fault lies with us for carrying anything of value in our backpacks. Yet the reality is that, given the exchange rates between Canada and the Euro, as well as the potential of having our wallets pickpocketed while travelling, we’ve always carried hidden backup funds as both a cost saver and a safeguard. Beyond that, my greater concern has always been for the laptop, external hard drives, and camera gear Sean carries - equipment whose worth far exceeds that of a handful of bills.

In nearly 30,000 km of long-distance trails around the world, and more than 5,000 km of pilgrimage routes in Europe, this was the first and only time we had ever experienced such a theft.

It was a rough way to begin a long stage and a frustrating start to this Camino. The only small consolation came when a shy little cat crept hesitantly toward the doorway of the bar, clearly torn between fear and curiosity. Offering it a moment of attention provided a fleeting spark of warmth in an otherwise discouraging morning.

Road Walking 

Today’s stage was more typical of a Camino in terms of distance, around 25 to 30 kilometres, but in other ways it was quite unlike many of the traditional routes. Along the entire day’s walk, there were no services: no cafés, no small shops, not even a place to stop for a coffee.

We had read about this ahead of time and came prepared, but it is still one of the more unnerving aspects of the Via de la Plata and the Sanabrés. Almost every guidebook, review, and pilgrim’s account highlights the scarcity of services along these trails, and today we experienced firsthand what that reality means.

We would like to think that this absence of cafés and waystations also deepens the solitude, quiet, and sense of wilderness that pilgrims encounter on the Way. Perhaps the lack of distractions allows the rhythm of walking, the sounds of birds, and the open landscapes to take center stage. Yet only time will tell whether this proves to be a gift of the route or simply a recurring challenge to be endured.  For now, despite our discovery this morning, we are striving to hold onto our optimism. 

After the thirty-minute break at the cafe, we set off onto the highway, which we would follow for the next 16 km, until we reached the Parque Natural Sierra Norte.  Luckily, there was very little traffic on the quiet two-lane country road.  As we set off on the narrow track at the side of the asphalt, we heard a loud chorus of frogs singing in an unseen pond nearby.  To our right, we could see a huge crescent moon and above it an enormously bright light which we assumed must be a planet, but which our SkyView App didn't seem to think existed.  It remains a mystery.  Above us, we could see the Big Dipper, and we realized that the last time we'd seen this sky was when we set sail from Sint Maarten on board the Wind Surf almost one month ago.

Sunrise on Camino

Slowly, the sky began to get light in the east, and we could begin to see the outlines of palm trees, buildings, and concrete walls.  A chorus of roosters began to call out across the landscape with great enthusiasm and at enormous volume, calling and answering between unseen farms.  This set off a chorus of dogs barking, their voices joining the roosters as though checking in with each other and sharing news of any events that occurred during the night.

As the light grew stronger and the sky began to turn light pink and then orange, the voices of the roosters and dogs were replaced with bird song.  Soon we were treated to a gorgeous sunrise that illuminated a rolling agricultural landscape of fields, olive groves, and small farms.  We spotted quite a few buzzards and kites circling overhead, as well as Crested Larks in the tall grass, Coal Tits moving busily between the olive trees, huge Wood Pigeons impersonating hawks on the utility wires, and many Hoopoes giving their repeated 'hoop hoop hoop' calls in the distance.  It was very beautiful, and we were very grateful that there were only a few cars on the road during our entire walk, and that the local drivers were very considerate.

Around 11 km into the hike, a track appeared beside the highway.  We didn't notice where it began, but suddenly the yellow arrows seemed to disappear off the highway, and stone markers appeared beside us in the field.  We followed the highway for a little farther and then decided to scramble across the ditch and through the tall weeds and thistles that were still soaked with dew.

The track was rather narrow and overgrown, and our shoes were soon soaked.  A few hundred meters later, we came to a paved drive that connected the road to the path, and from that point on, the track was considerably less overgrown.  I guess a bit of patience would have paid off.

As we continued on, we could see layered hills and mountains in the background.  The land around us was beautiful, with the trees and tall grasses lit by the long slanting rays of the sun.  The reddish gold sand of the track was bordered on the edges and in the middle by a wash of tiny purple wildflowers.  On either side of the trail, a riot of yellow, white, and purple wildflowers exploded in a burst of colours.

At the edge of the park gates, we passed what seemed to be regional wineries, their entrances marked by massive clay pots that stood like silent sentinels at each set of gates.

Nature and Spirituality

Stepping through the gates into the National Park, we paused for a short break alongside a few other pilgrims. Conversation, however, was limited. One pilgrim in particular remarked, as they put their backpack on, that we should not be carrying cameras or taking pictures of birds, but instead focus entirely on our internal journey so that we might become better people.

It was not the first time we had encountered such sentiments on these routes, and by now we had come to recognize it as a familiar, if occasionally disheartening, perspective.

For us, however, pausing to notice the natural world, to listen for birdsong, and to capture fleeting moments with a camera is not a distraction but a way of being fully present. It is through these encounters with the landscape and its wildlife that our own Camino deepens and takes on meaning. For me, connecting to nature is connecting to the spiritual.

Taxis on the Via de la Plata

Sitting with our shoes off and enjoying an early morning snack, we watched as a number of pilgrims arrived by taxi and gathered at the gates. No one already seated there said a word, but before these newcomers even offered a greeting, they immediately announced that they had only taken a taxi because they didn’t want to walk on the pavement. With a kind of nervous defensiveness, they proclaimed, “Traditional pilgrims would not walk on paved roads, so we don’t have to!” The quick explanation came before anyone had made the slightest critique - though truthfully, it is doubtful that anyone would have said a thing.

As we’ve walked the Via de la Plata, we’ve noticed that a fair number of pilgrims choose to use taxis. Many online forums recommend it, and we’ve met plenty of people in albergues who have opted to bypass long road sections this way. Given the length of the stages and the challenges of this particular route, we’ve come to understand that, unlike on some other Caminos where this might be frowned upon, here it seems to be regarded as a practical strategy for managing the journey.

The difficulty for us lies not in the use of taxis themselves, but in how often they seem to be justified as a way of avoiding “merely road walking” or “the boring sections.” For us, even those stretches hold value. Walking through farmland, along roadsides, or across open plains may not be picturesque, but each step contributes to the continuity of the pilgrimage. These quieter or less dramatic passages can offer their own lessons in patience, endurance, and attentiveness. These are the places where patience is tested, where the body aches, and where (perhaps most importantly) the mind begins to wander.  With nothing to distract you and only the rhythm of the trail, insight, inspiration and clarity arise.   There is value in each step taken, perhaps most especially amid the regions that seem the hardest or least remarkable at the time. 

In the end, each person must walk their own Camino in their own way - but we still believe there is something to be garnered from every section, even the ones that at first appear unremarkable.

Finca El Berrocal

The path soon carried us into El Berrocal, a farm and meadow that forms part of the network of transhumance roads stretching across the province. From here, our next 13 kilometres unfolded along a winding gravel track—a welcome change after the pavement of earlier stages.

It was a beautiful trek beneath groves of cork oaks. For Canadians more accustomed to the wildness of Algonquin Park or the rugged forests of British Columbia, the scene felt almost manufactured: neat rows of trees arranged across the land, the entire landscape shaped by centuries of human management. This region is known as the dehesa, a semi-forested system designed so that the trees are spaced out to provide shade while allowing domesticated animals to graze beneath them.

Despite its cultivated nature, spring flowers still brightened the ground, and the day offered many moments of quiet beauty. Along the way, we paused at a small memorial to a fallen pilgrim, Michel Laurent, and later climbed to a mirador that gave wide views of the surrounding countryside.

The route itself was easy to follow, with signs, gates, and the spacing of the trees providing clear direction. Yet it was striking how different this national park was from those at home. In Canada, forests are allowed to grow dense, with fallen branches and undergrowth left in place to enrich the soil. Here, the ground had been carefully swept of all debris, the trees stood evenly apart, and the entire park carried the feeling of being a heavily managed landscape.  It was a reminder that Europeans had shaped and managed landscapes, longer in fact than Canada has been a country or known to Europeans.  

It also stands as a testament to the fact that what feels natural and wild to people arises out of their cultural perspective and historical framework.   For me, I still prefer the wilds of the Rockies to forestry plantations.  Yet, for many Europeans, dehesa are wilderness.

We wandered on past a forestry school and through open fields, the character of the land changing gradually as cork oaks gave way to pine and eucalyptus. Eventually, we came to the end of the park itself, marked by a massive gate weighted with iron. Passing through, we left behind El Berrocal and continued our way north.

Tough Climb

With the national park now behind us, the gravel track began a steady climb. Off in the distance, a vast red brown hill loomed, its face marked by a zigzagging line that looked like a scar. At first, we laughed, convinced there was no way such a brutally vertical route could be ours. Yet the closer we came, the clearer it became that the Camino was indeed leading us straight up that slope.

Reaching the base, we tilted our heads back and saw the path rising almost directly skyward. Two cyclists overtook us at the bottom, but within minutes, even they were forced to dismount and push their bikes. The incline was simply too much. We began the slow climb toward the Alto del Calvario, buzzards circling above us as though waiting for someone to falter. Half joking, half serious, we kept muttering to them that we were not dead yet, though we may have looked it.

Step by step, we gained the summit, rewarded at last with sweeping views back across the forested valley. It was unusual in Spain to see such an expanse of trees, and the panorama stretched green and wide beneath the bright sky. The elation of reaching the top, however, quickly gave way to the harder task of the descent. The trail pitched steeply downward toward the town below. From high on the hillside, we could already hear the voices of children at play and the laughter of families drifting up to meet us.

In my opinion, the descent was even more gruelling than the climb. My legs shook like jelly, and the strain of balancing against gravity left me physically exhausted. Still, step by step, we made our way down, eventually entering and passing through the town at the base of the hill, grateful to have survived one of the toughest ascents and descents of the Camino so far.

Almanden de la Plata 

At one o’clock in the afternoon, we walked into the town of Almadén de la Plata, whose name quite literally translates to silver mine. The Camino carried us downhill into the village, winding past the church, the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de Gracia, and eventually leading us to the beautiful town centre.

Here we faced a dilemma. Should we stay in the local albergue, knowing it was likely filled with many of the same people as the night before - including, perhaps, the person who had stolen from our backpacks?  Or should we push onward? The next stage was more than fifteen kilometres, which meant we would not arrive at the following town until five or six in the evening. Reluctantly, we decided to remain in Almadén for the night.

Finding the municipal albergue proved more difficult than expected. Locals gave us a series of conflicting directions, each pointing in a different direction to the far end of town. Eventually, a kind family, taking pity on our confusion, guided us the right way. As it turned out, the signs had been there all along, clearly marked but posted high above our line of sight. We had simply never thought to look up.

When we finally arrived at the albergue, we were greeted by the now familiar proclamation of a German pilgrim declaring, “I am number one today!” Soon after, our New Zealand and British friends joined in a conversation about how unappealing the growing race for beds had become. There was no denying that the sheer number of hikers and resulting competition, while understandable, was beginning to cast a shadow over the spirit of the Camino.

Evening in the Albergue

When we arrived at the albergue, there was no hospitalero on duty. The door stood open, and everyone else had already wandered in and chosen a bed. Following their lead, we simply picked a bunk and set our things out to claim our space, taking what turned out to be the last spot available on the main floor. We each took turns showering while the other kept an eye on our bags, and once we were cleaned up, we set out to explore the town.

Later in the afternoon, we joined a few other pilgrims for a cold beer at a local bar. Conversation soon turned to the sheer number of people now walking the Via de la Plata. By most estimates, there were between forty and fifty pilgrims on the trail at that moment, numbers that hosts consistently remarked were unprecedented. On the way back, we spotted a Moorish gecko darting across a wall, and we picked up the familiar staples of bread, cheese, guacamole, and tomatoes for supper. Although we were growing a little weary of this simple meal, it was filling and easy to prepare, and we ate and chatted contentedly.

In the early evening, a young woman arrived at the albergue, and at first, many assumed she was the hospitalero. Instead, we learned she was walking her horse all the way from Seville to Germany, a journey of some three to four thousand kilometres. Her horse was stabled nearby rather than at the albergue, and as the youngest woman among us, she quickly became the focus of several men’s attention.

The actual hospitalero did not arrive until much later in the evening, nearly ten o’clock. By then, a group of older men were visibly agitated, flapping their arms in frustration and complaining that they could not properly go to bed until she had checked them in. Watching the scene, I could not help but think that when upset, older men have a tendency to resemble restless chickens, and some even seemed to take a strange pleasure in their own indignation and dramatics.

By the time most pilgrims had settled into their bunks, the room had become unbearably hot. Windows had been shut tight against a supposed draft, despite the stifling air. To escape, we slipped out into the night for a short walk, grateful for the cooler air outside. Unfortunately, rest proved elusive even after our return. As snores filled the dormitory, a young pair of pilgrims chose the common room a few feet away from the open dorm for their repeated nighttime activities. Sleep, for us, was little more than a series of brief interruptions before morning arrived.

See you on the Way!