Total distance: 64 km. Total climb: 300 m.

Our route out of León takes us through the wide open plaza in front of San Marcos, a onetime monastery that eventually became one of the state-owned luxury hotels called Paradors. According to CCH, the façade of this very wide building is “a masterpiece of exuberant Renaissance Plateresque urban architecture.” Heading northwest from León our route follows a two-lane road and soon passes into hilly suburbs, where much residential construction is in progress, and then into hilly open space. As if to equalize our morning exposure to sunlight, the road bends straight west, then southwest, then west again after we cross over a major highway. Groves of broad leaved poplars give way to groves of pines with medium-length needles. I notice that the pine forest is fenced off from the road, perhaps because it is private land. As we move swiftly across gently rolling ups and downs I notice Spanish lavender in the ditch beside the road.

A satisfying descent with gentle curves allows me to register a daily maximum speed just over 60 kph on my digital speedometer (about the same as I’ve done every day). It also gives me a good starting velocity for a 16 km level run toward our morning destination. I play leap-frog with Judge Pancho, Julia and Maria Elena, sprinting ahead at times, falling behind when I take a photograph, then joining them at a more relaxed pace to enjoy the sights. In towns with names like Benavides and Villares de Orbigo we notice, growing in small fields right beside the houses, broad-leafed vines trained on runners like green beans, but trailing far above the reach of humans – much too high to pick. Later we learn these are hopyards.

Around noon we come to the town of Hospital de Órbigo, a name referring not to a medical facility but to the pilgrim hospice here on the Rio Órbigo. This town is our highlight of the day. It is the only landmark on the Camino that is a monument to unrequited love. There is a long bridge (19 arches) across a wide riverbed (containing a tame, shallow river at this time of year). According to CCH it is considered one of Spain’s best remaining Gothic bridges. Only 4 of its 19 arches date back to the 13^th century, however; the rest had to be rebuilt in more recent centuries after falling to the destructive forces of flood and warfare.

But the bridge’s real fame owes to an event of legendary proportions. I could not tell the story of the Paso Honroso (“honorable passage”) better than the authors of CCH:

In 1434 the Leonese knight Suero de Quiñones held forth on this bridge against all comers in what may have been Europe’s last true medieval tournament. Suero, scorned by his lady, wore an iron collar around his neck as a sign that he considered himself bound to her. When that failed to impress her, he resolved to challenge the best lances of Europe to meet him on the Órbigo Bridge. Suero . . . secured the King’s permission. The word spread like wildfire through a European nobility sated with the messy intricacies of court politics and gruesome dynastic wars and yearning for the simpler world they read about in . . . books of chivalry. That fictitious world was a place in which a single knight, by the force of his personality and sword, could prove the virtue of his cause though the whole world be arrayed against him.

The legend lives on to this day because, of course, Suero was never defeated. In the end:

On the last day of the tourney, August 9, a final great procession was held. Suero appeared and proclaimed that since he had proved his fealty to his secret lady by wearing the iron band and by breaking 300 lances at the jousts, he was now free. With that he removed the iron band and presented it to the judges. The crowd roared its approval. From the bridge Suero led a procession all the way back to León, where he vowed – now that he was free – to journey to Compostela as a pilgrim. This he did, and when he reached the cathedral, he deposited a jewel-encrusted bracelet as token of his release from the prison of love. [CCH, pp 269-70]

The pilgrims’ footpath runs right across the bridge, but our paved road bypasses it. To see it we must carefully negotiate a few blocks of the town’s bumpy cobblestone streets, and then ride along the relatively flat pavingstones of the bridge. On the center of the span I meet Texas  Rex and Terry along with Dean. After staring into the waters and taking in the view we proceed to the far bank of the Órbigo, where we find a bar. I order café, and after finishing that I share some of the calamari and cookies that the others have ordered. (An odd combination of three c’s that may form the basis of a balanced diet.) We relax there, knowing it will only be another 20 km ride to our destination in Astorga. We notice three or four stork nests crowded at the top of a nearby church tower. The ungainly birds stretch their wings and, now and again, take to the air, demonstrating that they can indeed fly. After having our fill of food and storkwatching we head back across the bridge. We find no knights on horseback eager for combat, but do encounter a couple friendly Englishmen on bicycles who have traveled from Kent.

Back on the road we meet yet another couple who have pedaled from the Netherlands with full gear, camping whenever they can.

On reaching Astorga we check into a hotel whose view is only a slight step below that of Burgos. In Burgos, you may recall, the Meson del Cid looked out on the west façade of the cathedral. Here in Astorga the rooms of the Hotel Gaudi face what is probably the second most significant landmark in the town: the Bishop’s Palace, a neo-Gothic structure resembling a fantasy castle, which was designed in the late 19^th century by architect Antoni Gaudi, an early 20^th century modernista architect who is well known for designing several buildings in Barcelona, including a gigantic neo-gothic church, La Sagrada Familia.

My first mission is, of course, to visit the cathedral. This one is the newest of the cathedrals I’ll see on the tour, having been built in the 16^th century. It has a pure Baroque façade of multicolored white and reddish stones. Inside I take a quick look at the fine Renaissance retablo by Gaspar Becerra, who was a disciple of Michelangelo and Raphael.

Our whole group reconvenes for a visit to the Chocolate Museum. A guided tour (followed by a chocolate tasting) highlights Astorga’s pioneering role in the manufacture of chocolate in Europe very soon after cacao beans were brought from the New World. After that I have time to visit the Bishop’s Palace, which is now a museum of images and artifacts relating to the pilgrimage. Inside are two chapel-like spaces: a two-storey upper chapel and a single-story ground floor chapel. Combining transepts, turrets and stained glass, this is an unusual hybrid of castle and church. The multi-cellular floor plan and the abundance of narrow, clear leaded-glass windows make it an excellent display space. The upper chapel contains art, trending backward in time from modern oils to medieval capitals and busts of the Virgin and various saints. Images of two saints left lasting impressions on me: San Roque, lifting his garment to reveal the leprous lesions on his knee, and Santa Águeda (Agatha), shown carrying her severed breasts on a plate.‡ The main floor has many Santiago images. The crypt below is filled with tablets having Latin inscriptions (and one Greek) and a few sarcophagi.

Even after two museum tours it is still early enough to relax and socialize for a couple hours before dinner. And no time and place could be better to do this than a Friday evening in Astorga. This is a town of only 12,500 people. But the busy scene at the large plaza in front of the 17^th c. Baroque Ayuntamiento (town hall) gives the impression of a larger town. When I arrive I run into the party crew: freewheeling Dean and the Texans, Rex and Terry. They have picked a table in front of a popular bar in the corner of the plaza and have already had a drink or two. To my delight the place they have chosen is called Cervezería Esquina (literally, “the corner beer bar”), and I notice a sign that promises 16 variedades de cerveza. Hoping for a British ale to counterbalance the excess of lager I’ve had lately, I inspect the multi-lingual beer menu. All are bottled. There are several German and Belgian brews, but, unfortunately, no ales and nothing whatsoever from the British Isles. I order a German doppelbock, which is dark, at least, but a bit too malty-sweet for my taste. Dean orders another round of “bodka-tonica” (about the only thing he has attempted to say in Spanish), which gives me the opportunity to witness the generous Spanish approach to serving mixed drinks. The waiter brings to our table a bottle of vodka, a bottle of tonic, and a tumbler of ice. He pours alcohol into the glass to the level desired by the customer (in Dean’s case, about a half glass) before adding the mixer. I wonder how a waiter would handle something like a zombie, which calls for three kinds of rum and several fruit juices.

One entire side of the plaza is lined with tables set out in front of the bars. Most of the tables are occupied by parties of four to six people. People of all ages, from great-grandparents to mothers with young children. Interestingly, most of the adults are women. There are a few men here and there, but five tables in our immediate vicinity are occupied by groups of women, seemingly segregated by age: middle-aged to our right, elderly to the left, young women and children a little farther away. Perhaps the men are all inside the bars watching sports on television. We see no one else who looks like a pilgrim or tourist.

The children are occasionally entertained by the workings of a mechanical clock that tops the façade of the town hall. At the top of the hour two human figures – depicting ethnic Maragatos, whose town we will see tomorrow morning – spring into action, alternating to swing a mallet and strike the hour on a large bell. During the time that we sip our drinks, talking and watching the crowd, we hear and see the Maragatos strike seven bells – and, later, eight bells.

We’re on our own for dinner tonight, and six of us dine together at a restaurant called La Peseta.

When I return to the hotel my room is stuffy, and I open the window to my balcony wide for ventilation. It’s about 11:30, but the town of Astorga is not about to retire early on a Friday night. Although we’re far from the main plaza, people seated on benches near the Bishop’s Palace right below are talking loudly. Around midnight a fireworks display commences. I can’t see any of the pyrotechnics from my window, but the loud booming leads me to give up thoughts of sleep for the moment. Half an hour later, though, I can’t keep my eyes open. I take one last look out my window at the Bishop’s Palace and  fall asleep as the citizens of Astorga continue their revels.