September 17
The stage from Obanos to Estella covers very fertile ground. We see a large variety of cultivated fields and gardens: almond trees, olive trees, and apricot trees (we think; they would be the largest apricots we've ever seen).
Vineyards are abundant and blackberries grow wild alongside the path.
As we approach Villatuerta, plowed fields are so stony we wonder what could possibly grow in them. It is less shaded between here and Estella, and it is the hottest day since we've been here. The sun beats down on us and we're running low on water, so it's a major disappointment to find the fountain water here non-potable. Along a residential street, a man is working on either building or significantly renovating a house. He greets me, asks where I'm from (normal for locals along the Camino). He seems a bit chattier than usual, though, so I take a chance and step outside my comfort zone. A hose is coiled nearby; I manage to convey to him that I'm asking if we can fill our water bottles from his hose. He does even better: he takes our bottles inside and fills them with “mountain water," much better than the city water. We're just grateful it's wet and cold. I hope God blesses that man tenfold. Not much longer after this, about a kilometer out from our goal, Estella, is when disaster strikes.
The stage from Obanos to Estella covers very fertile ground. We see a large variety of cultivated fields and gardens: almond trees, olive trees, and apricot trees (we think; they would be the largest apricots we've ever seen).
Vineyards are abundant and blackberries grow wild alongside the path.
As we approach Villatuerta, plowed fields are so stony we wonder what could possibly grow in them. It is less shaded between here and Estella, and it is the hottest day since we've been here. The sun beats down on us and we're running low on water, so it's a major disappointment to find the fountain water here non-potable. Along a residential street, a man is working on either building or significantly renovating a house. He greets me, asks where I'm from (normal for locals along the Camino). He seems a bit chattier than usual, though, so I take a chance and step outside my comfort zone. A hose is coiled nearby; I manage to convey to him that I'm asking if we can fill our water bottles from his hose. He does even better: he takes our bottles inside and fills them with “mountain water," much better than the city water. We're just grateful it's wet and cold. I hope God blesses that man tenfold. Not much longer after this, about a kilometer out from our goal, Estella, is when disaster strikes.
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