The
Girls (pg 74)
The young women parked on the steps at the edge of the village of Villamayor de Monjardín would look at home on a Vogue cover: “Camino chic: Who says a pilgrim has to be a frump?” Everything matches, from the spiffy straw hats and silver scallop-shell earrings to the capri pants (one’s in grey, the other blue). I don’t see any matching backpacks. Have they already checked in somewhere?
“Yeah, we’re at the refuge. Not exactly the nicest place we’ve been…”
“There’s a hole in the ceiling and this huge spider web …”
“And the bathroom door doesn’t really close…”
“And there’s no windows…”
“But the ladies were nice….”
“Yeah, they were, weren’t they…”
“And I’ve been laid up for three days with tendonitis so this is it for today…”
Do they not know about the other refuge? The one a hundred yards up the road, with the clean, hot showers and the windows overlooking the valley?
They take one look at each other – “Can you wait here?” – and they’re back in a wink with their matching backpacks. “Let’s go before someone sees us,” says Nuala. We tear up the street as if we’re running out on a bill.
