I'm in Spain without the S

Pain shoots up my shins before I've even left Oxford. If I was a superhero then my special ability would be the power walk, granted it does come with a 2 month cool down period while the shin splints subside. At least I'll make my train on time. Oh. Sike ! Cancelled. Thanks, British Rail.

Fine, whatever. I shoehorn my poor body into a train heading to Marylebone instead. This leg goes about as expected, although it does open my eyes to the world of teenagers' social media. I overlook a girl's phone as she somehow jumps between messaging some twenty boys all at once, still visibly longing over one boy, Paddy, who'd never replied to her last message.

Delayed in London’s ratruns, I race to Baker Street, get lost, somehow resurface at Liverpool Street, panting like I’ve just done the first stage of the Camino already. Okay, Stansted Express next, 19:15 arrival gives me 1h25 to spare, that's doable.

The train rocks my vegetable head, lost in some half-formed poetry, when a tannoy jolts me back to reality: ‘Tickets at the ready.’ I leap out like a man reborn onto the platform of... Bishop’s bloody Stortford. Brilliant. I’m 30 minutes from the airport with 45 minutes until my gate closes. I'm toast. 🍞🍞🍞

Shin splints turn to thin sprints as I speedrun security, parry the shuttle bus, and flash my boarding pass at the cabin crew just as the gate is chiming shut, still frantically googling 'travel insurance' as the plane creeps onto the runway.

Late hours awake in the liminal spaces of Santiago airport conjure hallucinations of breakfast, and the flickering ghosts of closed cafés that do nothing to satiate my biting hunger.

But before too long, morning reveals its sympathetic brow from beyond a forested horizon. A gentle bus ride carries me through the rolling green hills of Galicia, which mutate into the thorny vineyards of León province.

I am now in Ponferrada, a 205 kilometre jaunt from Santiago. But where's everyone else? The streets are empty, the shops are closed, even the pigeons seem to have clocked off. The people I do see insist on speaking Spanish to me (are they stupid?).

My albergue host assures me this is in fact a normal Saturday, but that only raises more questions. Why is there a rock band playing in the main square? Why are my shoes on the wrong feet?

I find a kebab shop, the finest dining establishment within a one-minute walk and call it a night.Les mer