It was cold. The tent also managed to collect all the mouisture from our collective respiration, and deposit it on our faces in something akin to Chinese water torture. Still, we had survived unmolested, and packed up our camp in good spirits.
After a brief, triumphant wait outside said overpriced Hotel, we were picked up by two Nigerian church guitarists, heading to Tudela proper. After a brief breakfast (we need to cut down on the cheese), we began out favourite pastime of hiking across town. Being a Sunday, there was very little open, and almost no traffic. Excellent hitching conditions then!
At the edge of town, a kindly (or so we thought) man picked us up. Not speaking a word of Spanish, I thought we were being taken straight to Zaragosa! We were instead dropped at the service station from hell. Of the two or three drivers an hour who passed through, all were grumpy and gruff with Ollie, and we began despairing. For fun, we walked a few km to a nearby, utterly deserted village, and then immediately retraced our steps to the service station.
After 4 short hours, Ollie managed, through much persistence, to persuade an old Spanish couple to ferry us to Zaragoza in their swanky new Merc. It’s always slightly worrying when someone lays down a large towel before letting you sit in their car. Our most awkward lift yet, and I helped Ollie out by falling asleep.
In Zaragoza at last, we managed to find a youth hostel. What a place, €17.50 a night and very tight free live jazz! We got a little drunk, and went in search of dinner, which we found in the shape of €8.50 for three courses and a shitty bottle of ice cold red wine. We returned to the hostel for more Ron y Cola (apparently coca means cocaine) and more seriously smooth jazz. Everyone here is trop cool!
tl; dr The whole of Europe appears to smell like hot poo.
P.s. Ollie says “The novelty of the smell of my walking boots has worn off. The smell itself has not…”