Say Cheese

On many of our walking days, the food source for lunch was uncertain.  Sometimes the we'll-get-there-about-lunchtime restaurant is closed, or isn't there.  So when we pass through a town early in the day we stock up on bread and cheese.  It's tasty, and lasts for a few days.

We go to the cheese counter, and peruse the various wheels behind the glass.  Although we can't tell what kind of cheese it is, the wheels have a picture of the animal the milk was from. That helps.  Through some pointing and gesticulating, we end up with a wedge about the size we intended.

Every place we went for cheese: grocery stores, farmers markets, and cheese shops, all prominently displayed these large orange wax covered, curious looking acorn shaped cheeses. They were always too large to try.

When we got to Finnestra, with a 20 miles and little prospects of food to purchase the next day, I was on the lookout.  There, in the local cheese shop, was a tiny acorn cheese along with the usual big ones. It would be perfect.

Not nearly as petite on the counter as it looked nestled among it's larger brethren, I went for it anyway: my map was void of lunch spots for the entire way. 

Wouldn't you know, a restaurant busy with other walkers, appeared just as our stomachs were asking for food and our feet demanding a break. No cheese needed today. (Note to self: never buy a tuna empanada for lunch at an out of the way restaurant, even if it is the first item on the menu). After three days, we still have some cheese left. (By the way, it has the consistency of Monterrey jack, and mild taste half-way between jack and smoked Mozzarella). This particular cheese has an interesting history