Via de la Plata

Heat becomes our companion. We leave at sunrise with eight litres of water in the backpack — eight kilos of extra weight for hours without a village or shade. The reservoir at Cañaveral is low from the drought, the "dog teeth" stones along the path worn smooth by centuries of cattle and pilgrims.

But then, crossing the Sierra de Cañaveral, everything changes. Green grass, lavender, flowers — it's as if we step into a different country. We find turtles basking on rocks in the sun, discover European stick insects (yes, really — they exist in Europe!), and are accompanied by red-backed shrikes that impale their prey on thorns.

At Salamanca our jaws drop. The "golden city" glows in the evening light: two cathedrals, the baroque Plaza Mayor, the shell-covered Casa de las Conchas. We could stay here a week. Somewhere on the Meseta we pass a battlefield where Napoleon was defeated, and cross a Roman bridge whose stones had been repurposed as stepping stones in the river.

We step from Extremadura into Castile and León. The landscape changes, the accent changes, even the dogs bark differently. But the Via de la Plata runs through it all like a straight line — ancient, undisturbed, and still the road under our feet.