I awoke to a curious crowd of bovine ilk staring down at me wondering if I were edible. I quickly departed my pastoral bed, and headed toward the nearest highway. Ciaou, cow, grazing in the green grown grass. At least one mooer seemed sorry to see me go.


The train tracks were about a mile north of the town, so I only saw it from a distance. An important battle took place there in 1762, but doesn't every town have an important battle to brag about and re-enact on holidays?


Later in the day, I finally caught a ride with a cool dude, forty something, on his way to Madrid from Lisbon. He drove a red sportscar convertible that took me to Cáceres, about 100 kilometers or 60 miles east of Valencia de Alcántara, dropping me off at the train station, while he searched for a night's lodging elsewhere. He said he would take me to Madrid tomorrow, but I never saw him again. Probably found someone else more intriguing, or less scruffy, to motor with. At night, I either slept in the train station or somewhere close by. Maybe that little park on the side?