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Grañón to Tosantos.

We made good time today, but still stopped somewhat early in Tosantos, at another parochial albergue. Instead of the standard issue passage-to-the-choir-loft-visit, today’s stay included a climb up to a little chapel built into the rock, of uncertain age. Along with a few Spaniards, the group included pilgrims from Germany, Finland, Sicily, France, and beyond. Since I’m fluent in Spanish and English, the caretaker of the church asked me to translate the tour, and so I became the unofficial translator of the evening – cooking instructions in the kitchen, grace at dinner, and a prayer service  afterward. Part of the prayer service included small folders with scraps of paper written by pilgrims who passed through before us, separated by language. Pilgrims write down reflections, requests for prayers, and impressions, and each evening at the prayer service the participants pull out a paper in their language of choice, to read out loud.

This is also where I found out – or, relearned – that in a room of sleeping pilgrims, I am one of the snorers.

Sorry, guys.

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