It was not a restful night. The young German woman in the bed below me had a dry cough which came out in bursts every ten minutes or so, just as I was nodding off. Add to this the interruption at 1.40am, when the door opened and the main light was switched on and the hostel staff member, talking quite loudly, showed a late arrival to his bed. This person, who I never saw, then left the light on while s/he made their preparations for bed. Only then were the rest of us granted darkness.

Anyway, I woke early, and, tempted as I was to whistle, sing and generally bash around, I packed up silently and slipped away from the hostel. I headed for the station through silent streets, punctuated only by a young couple having a furious row.

Ten minutes walk or so brought me to the main station, Barcelona Santa.

The MacDonald’s was packed, but the rest of the station still quiet. I found my holding area, which, being the one for high speed travel involved a security check. I put my rucksack through the machine, but the security man, who was checking people with one of those bleeping security wands, judged I was no serious threat, and waved me through.

There was a cafe beyond so I had a light breakfast. After a while it was getting near to the scheduled departure time. I had noticed at the airport the previous day, and again here, the peculiarly creative use of barrier tapes to herd people. Staff would get us into one shape, and then, by an almost balletic rearrangement of the social geometry by moving a few tapes, would divide or direct the crowd into another configuration. Nothing like the undignified dash for the train at Kings Cross when they finally announce the platform with minutes to spare.

The train was the express to Madrid, stopping only at the charmingly named Zaragoza Delicias. And express it was!

Zaragoza Delicias is a huge brand new temple to speed.

It takes about six or seven minutes to walk from one end of this vast shed with its triangular roof, to the other. It was raining hard, and the temperature was dropping, and most of the station felt distinctly cool. It is set in a new area of the city full of swoopy bridges.

The train to Logroño was a stopping one to Bilbao, and was packed. I finally arrived where I had stopped last September just before 1pm. I bought a few bits of food from a corner shop, and was away, with a silent prayer of thanks to be on my road to Compostela again.

Logroño was dry but overcast, and 11 degrees; not sight-seeing weather, but great for walking. The route took me out through a series of parks until it passed through a tunnel and you were out into the countryside. The whole afternoon’s walk was on well made up paths which were dry underfoot.

The route was fairly busy with joggers and walkers from the city, couples, families and singles enjoying a Sunday afternoon stroll.  It is very evidently springtime – but not as we know it. Lots of trees and shrubs in fresh leaf, but not much blossom in evidence, and none of the spring flowers. I realized that the lack of blossom was, in part, because the Spanish don’t have hedges dividing fields.

The numbers on the path thinned out as we went along. Then I came to a reservoir around which a nature reserve and park flourished. Lots of busy birds in evidence, the house martins prominent. The route traced the shoreline until, at the other end, there was a climb over the Alto de la Gradera. I had met an Australian couple by this stage, Graham and Aileen, he a retired academic and she an artist. So we walked the last few Kms together.

I found my Albergue as we came into the town. Excellent hospitality, a good meal, clean bedlinen. Perfect. I went to bed early and, too tired to write, decided to leave blogging until the morning. I was asleep instantly!