The beautiful old woman at the Albergue Villamajor de Monjardin looks worn as she stirs a golden quince syrup that will congeal and become a sweet jelly on top of slices of local cheese for tonight’s dessert. After five months of cooking, cleaning, making beds, answering dumb questions from a new set of grubby pilgrims every single night, these hostel owners are just holding on for the end of the season.  One hostel we phoned for a reservation said they are closed for the week. “Por que?”, we asked - “Why?”. “Para sobrevivir”, they answered - “To survive!”

When I ask if it’s for us tonight, she sharply retorts, “No, it’s for next year.” I gaily answer, “Great, we’ll just have to come stay with you again next year!” and she finally smiles. We share our own quince-Joys from the tree we planted on our Wildside Farm. As always, we are grateful to be able to speak Spanish and build bridges with these people who are clearly exhausted and deserve to be loved as much as they are loving us. Later she barks at a visitor who asks far too late if four of them can join supper, angrily muttering to Sarah about how these people just take and take so unreasonably.  So glad we’re on her good side!

I set out on my happy ankles to climb way up to the old fortress way above town. Pushing open the heavy old gate, I enter what is believed to have been “built by the Romans, reinforced by the Arabs, and later conquered by the Christians.” Once compared to “a ship that had run aground in the clouds”, this fortress had been the scene of many strategic battles since 1312, and now is my personal playground. Sarah pings me that the owner wants me to ring the old bell, which I do with probably too much enthusiasm while the whole hostel crowd pours out into the street far below to wave up. I feel a giddy mix of free and powerful and silly, like a conquering crusader, Maria Von Trapp and “King of the World” Leonardo DiCapprio all rolled into one.