The local stew of Astorga not to be missed, staying to Foncebadon tonight and
tomorrow morning will cross the pass where the statue of God Mercury used to
stand in Roman times.
The
painful past reminds me of an unconscious-sensation, but all the information dissipates as light reverts and enlightens the magnetic field.
Various guidebooks have given Foncebadon a reputation for being the home of rabid dogs eager for a tasty pilgrim snack, but in fact the mountain outpost has experienced something of a renaissance. In between utterly ruinous piles of stone are a smattering of lovingly restored old homes, typically shrouded in fog or buried in deep snow and both have their charm, but often there is a problem with accommodation.
I
arrived late in the afternoon to see my fellow man, three guys sitting outside
with desperate faces trying to figure out what to do next. Wow, I thought this could be an unexpected surprise, but they say there is a pension nearby with a single bed left.
I quickly run to the place and guess what _ my bad number is 11.
My birth number is eleven, and has been following me since awakening as a guardian angel, but showing here a day before crossing the pass of Mercury must be a good omen.