
Tucked amongst the alleyways of tombs is the most famous of them all: the grave of Eva Peron.



Our peregrinations fell into a happy routine of walking, sleeping and eating tortilla and olives. Lots of olives. Occasionally we'd pass a deserted finca. Sam would put a note under the door offering to buy it and Phil would pinch the pomegranates.
The first day was fine, the second day found our blisters and by day ten we were ready for a break. Cordoba was a tonic of charming side-streets, intriguing history and the sublime mosque.
Moving on, the scenery changed beneath our boots. We trekked through olive groves, oak-filled meadows, pig enclosures and uninviting rivers. We were now in Extramedura - known for its mud.
There is a grand old church in every small Spanish town and a pilgrimage is still respected. There aren't many peregrinos on this particular route so we appreciated the words of encouragement and even titbits of cheese and wine from the locals en route.
We only had to follow the yellow arrows but we did get lost once or twice. It was getting dark when, somewhere near Castuera, we wandered off track. But, guided by the smell of boiling sugar, Sam led us into a local nougat factory for directions.
We shall return for the stage from Merida to Santiago... Only 800 km to go!

Phil went even further back in time, poking around the graves of ancestors in the Yorkshire Dales.
On the opening night of the city's summer festival we jostled for a space on the celebratory harbour front.

A true highlight, we deemed Perast to be one of the finds of our travels. Venetian in style and tucked inside southern Europe's only fjord, we're already planning a return visit.


