We walked into a deserted Panchos (where we had tapas the day before) at 7.00pm for a snack of Raciones (we’ve got into the Spanish way of large lunch and small snacks for dinner) and asked why the long bar was empty. Senora told us: “the Spanish shop till eight then they’ll come, but I like it quiet”. So an hour alone with her and her staff (couldn’t do this without Corrie’s excellent Spanish) waiting for the inevitable food and wine seekers was very entertaining with some tapas on the house. Clouds greeted us in the morning as did our constant farewelling cuckoo bird as we turned into the lane way and the long stretch out or town. A 10km stretch before breakfast followed by a long gradual climb took us on to the ‘meseta’ part of a long stretch of wheat. The bald hills behind seemed to have drained themselves of colour as their green cover flowed out on to undulating landform and plains below. We soon entered the medieval one street village of Hornillos where our lodgings for the night are waiting for us and took time to breath in the villages ancient stories which led me to write the sonnet below

Hornillos – a sonnet

Down from the hills along a white way

Where the flats sing green andthe hills cry bare

And there in the distance where no kids play

A village lies quiet it seems no one’s there

The pilgrim treads lightly doesn’t want to violate

The ghosts of the past who walked through in peace

This village is witness to much of their fate

It keeps its secrets never to release

But if you tread softly and don’t make a sound

And listen so carefully for whispers or sighs

Or look for the cracks in stone walls then you’re bound

To discover your secrets and behind them what lies

Your silent stone walls of which the village now speaks

There is no more silence you can now hear the creaks

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