BUSKING TO SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA

The decorations are going up in the streets and the pilgrims start to think of Christmas

5 DECEMBER

The International Snail Club takes the day off in Len to be cultured. The cathedral: a complete history of art in stone and stained glass. And scaffolding. The museum: Romanesque cloister and murals, silks embroidered by Eleanor of Aquitaine, illuminated medieval songbooks, benighted schoolkids holding shouting matches. Just what the old monks always intended.

Finally, the Old Town, famed for its tapas bars, quiet squares, picturesque locals, and ... roadworks. We're just in time to watch harried council workers struggling to put up Christmas decorations - hindered by other council workers digging up the road. Better than bullfighting. Incompetence - an international language.

Suddenly Phillippe the Frenchman (Cannibal Snail) asks: "What are we doing for Christmas?" Stunned silence. None of us had thought so far ahead. Walk back to the hostel pensively. Even through the roar of pneumatic drills I can hear the brains whirring.

Late that evening, an Italian pilgrim limps in with so many blisters he can hardly walk. He's had them for 400 miles. Sister Snail winces, then goes to work. Unguent, bandage, "and take two days off!". He smiles. Stubbornly. He's gone before dawn.

6 DECEMBER

Leaving Len is a battle. Roadworks, concrete, traffic, fumes, homicidal Spanish drivers ... It's afternoon before we break out of the urban jungle into farmland again. The muddy plain is behind us at last. Up ahead lie the snow-shrouded mountains of Len. A cold wind blows across the fields, whipping our breath into thin streaks. What happened to sunny Spain? Huddle behind a mound of sugar beet, and Sister and Cannibal celebrate the return to fresh air - with a cigarette.

10 DECEMBER

A vicious climb leads up into Astorga, home to a neo-Gothic Gaud palace, artery-blocking cuisine (mainly involving pigs), and more roadworks. In the pilgrim hostel we find the Italian Blister Snail, soaking his feet. He got here in a day, then took four days to recover. Invite him to join the Snail Club. "I'm no snail!" Eight deep blisters argue otherwise. We'll get him yet.

As I polish my week's report, he starts interrogating me. For whom am I writing? The Independent on Sunday, I reply. His eyes widen. "That's a famous intellectuals' paper, isn't it?"

There you go, reader. Even the Italians know it.

For more information on the charity trombone walk, visit the website: www.netplaycafe. co.uk/bonewalk