Good journey!

Specifically, at a rest area on a detour of the Camino for all pilgrims willing to take a small detour to escape the roaring traffic and the stinky exhaust fumes of the national road for a few kilometers.

I am surprised by how long the Camino francés runs alongside the well-traveled N120. Due to frequent closures of sections of the parallel highway, it has an even higher volume of traffic.

Here in the Spanish corn chamber, between harvested and freshly plowed endless fields of grain, the Camino runs over a bumpy dirt track dotted with countless, infinitely deep potholes.

At the rest area, a young Australian has just arrived and is taking care of the countless blisters on his battered feet in the shade of the plane trees.

An older German gentleman joins us, and we chat a bit.

He tells me that he started in Burgos and is walking the trail for the third time. I am surprised that there are still so many people piloting here at the beginning of October, but he says it is the best time of year.

Even though it gets light very late in the morning and one has to start early if they want to snag a spot in one of the affordable municipal hostels. But now the crowd is nowhere near as large as it was in September. He no longer carries his luggage himself, but has it transported by the postal service, Correos, for a few euros.

He chuckles as he tells me about friends who rode the trail on e-bikes and were denied the issuance of the pilgrim certificate in Santiago. Apparently, they did not contribute enough effort.

And Mr. Pelegrino explains to us why many Asian women cover their faces completely in addition to wearing an oversized wide-brimmed hat, which seemed a bit spooky to us in Vega de Valcarce.

The reason is that a flawless, pale complexion is a central beauty ideal and a sign of wealth. Tanned skin is associated with hard fieldwork and poverty in many parts of Asia.

Both pilgrims refill their bottles at the spring with pure, delicious, and completely chlorine-free water, and we continue on our way, bidding farewell with ¡Buen camino!, as we learned along the way. We plan to bypass Burgos today and stop in the Sierra de la Demanda.

Upon arrival, we are greeted by a freezing wind, and thick dark clouds prevent the smallest ray of sunshine from warming the caravan. For the first time, I dig out my long underwear, and the hero turns on the heater.

Oh, how I wish we had stayed on the sunny Camino. The bright blue sky there lifts the spirits; we would have pulled out the foldable chairs, sipped coffee with the constantly passing pilgrims, shared stories, and let God be a good man.

But now we find ourselves at 1200 meters above sea level at the small reservoir, and winter has arrived!

In the morning, the top of Pico San Millán at 2131 meters is dusted white, and it has also snowed on the Tourmalet in the Pyrenees. How fortunate that the hero packed the snow chains for the return trip over the passes at the last moment!

However, in the valley beneath us, the foothills of the lovely Rioja begin. We really like this area.

Gentle hills, picturesque table mountains, romantic villages, traditional bodegas, as far as the eye can see.

And where the wine thrives, the sun also seems to shine.

But first, we are welcomed by endless expanses with gigantic fields full of blood-red peppers. I get out to take a photo of the gigantic crops, and I am tempted to slip one or two into my pocket. But they are too large; no chance for a discreet theft in the heat of the moment. Moreover, I still recall the memory of the viciously barking dog by the fig bush, even if I reluctant to admit it.

We spend the night at a mirador high above Haro, the unofficial wine capital, with a fantastic view of the Rioja. Tomorrow, a weekly market will take place in the old town, and I am optimistic about being able to legally acquire some of the wonderful bright red Pimentos, virtually straight from the field.

With sunrise, the noise of firecrackers jolts us awake. It is also hunting season in Spain, but we wonder what kind of game can be shot at repeatedly with shotguns without fleeing. Echoes resound from the mountains, and shortly afterwards, the next hunting party arrives in heavily motorized four-wheel drives.

We set off towards the Mercadillo, but are stopped at the exit by the local ranger, who scolds us with a stern face and hungover look, asking where we have come from.

Luckily, I understand the question and truthfully respond that we just departed from the official parking lot, which he apparently seems to have forgotten due to the plentiful Rioja consumed the day before. Señor Guardabosque reacts with a dismissive wave and a curt '¡Vale!' and lets us go.

What did he think? No, we are not driving up the prohibited steep bumpy track into the woods. Besides, the hunters have already made it very clear with their vivid gestures that sharp shooting will occur here: '¡Arriba, arriba! ¡Caza, vale, vale, vale!'

Let's hope for the best for the small hiking group that set off cheerfully laughing on their tour into the mountains at dawn, that they won't find themselves as game in the evening.

The weekly market in Haro turns out to be a great disappointment. No giant peppers, no cheese, no fig bread. Just a few stalls with the usual women's clothing, consisting of colorful aprons and printed bullfighter boleros.

However, we still manage to stop and pick a few grapes from the vines by the roadside. This year's harvest seems to be very good, as many vines have been left hanging or simply tossed under the plants. For fertilization, as I learned during the grape harvest with the French cooperative.

And thus the harvest amount is regulated and prevents prices from falling due to overproduction.

¡To your health!