Monday, 9 October 2017
Burgos stay put
00 km today - 264 km on Camino Frances - 970 km from Le Puy - 520 to Santiago
A well trained choir is piped through to us from 07h. A good breakfast is provided and I am gone by 08h.
And I am going to check in to an hotel, and not any hotel but the one I stayed at l8 months while resting before removing to London. First business to understand why the Orange internet service I bought in Estella nearly a week ago stopped working on Sunday afternoon. I don’t understand what I am told in fractured English, but I do get the impression it was a known problem.
Then to report to my travel insurer a fall I had last Wednesday, the invisible effects of which do not seem to be moderating. I had taken what looked to be the path but which led to a dead end. As I turned about, tablet in hand and looking at others on the real path about 50 metres away, I stumbled on some vegetation underfoot. The only outcome was pain in a small area just to the right of my left armpit. And then only when I coughed or blew my nose or, I discovered that night, when rolling over. There were no visible marks or bruising. The area is where the shoulder strap sweeps down the side. And where I have a shoulder strap pouch stuffed with a pair of thick gloves. Oh well. The only good aspect of reporting the incident to the travel insurers is I get the name and address of the hospital they want me to use. Foreboding sets in: it is the same hospital I went to last year. Then they took one x-ray shot and diagnosed Osteo-Arthritis. Whereas the NHS hospital took multiple shots and said no to that. Oh well. I go anyway and encounter a local who also speaks enough English to get me through admission. I go to the waiting room and hear some announcements. But it is not my name. Wrong. But my new friend scurries back and sets me on the right path to room Triage 2. From there I am taken to area Control B and put in quite a full holding room with beds and wheel chairs, other like me and supporters. Many announcements, and, remembering the first waiting room experience, I check my place in the queue – five ahead. I have all the time in the world, but don’t want to stuff up their process. After a while someone comes to the doorway, looks at me and says “Alan” – no mistake.
The doctor has a good approach and some English: we do well, nice focussed exam and she orders some x-rays. Three this time. For one I have to put my hands above my head: it is painful to start and then eases off – have I found an exercise? There are no break or fractures: take things easy and lighten the load. Oh, and paracetamol. I had arrived about 15h30 and leave about 18h. I am content with the process, unlike the rushed and, I thought, very superficial experience 18 months before. Different to the ED at Wellington Hospital where you are taken to one of 18 cubicles when one is available and as the urgency at triage determines and where you can still wait some time. Here the waiting was to be taken to the nearby doctors room for the consult. Compared to Wellington it somehow seemed more efficient with respect to the scarce resource: a doctor.
Nightfall is about an hour away and I decide to walk the 3 km directly back to my hotel along a wide boulevard.
I freshen up and go looking for dinner. This should be a Menu del dia (fixed price) with English so I can order in confidence. After a lovely stroll though Plaza Mayor (Main Square) I find myself just to the west of the Cathedral and outside the place I found 18 months ago. After a while a German with an English menu sits down and we talk: he is cycling to Santiago from the French border and expects to do about 40 to 50 km a day.
And so to bed.
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