For hours on end I lie awake,
Sore afraid a breath to take,
As all around the bodies groan
And snort and snore and fart and moan.
And in a bunk across the aisle
Not one or twice, but all the while
From up on high, a lady coughs
Contagion in an airy froth,
Which like the mist on winter nights
Descends upon us hapless wights.
There was no room at the inn last night for any late-arriving pilgrims. There we were, both dorms full, all bunks, top and bottom, occupied. As always, it was something of a struggle to keep a window open; some people prefer warm, stuffy, body odours to the cool night air. And a lady was coughing.
We were in the foothills again today, up and down, skirting the villages with the sea below, seeing the church spires and thinking we were coming to a cafe, only to veer up again along a stony track. Sometimes we passed between tall stone walls, with bracken on either side, and not the oak and beech and chestnut you would expect, but gum trees.
I was sore and sluggish today, lacking sleep, and the plat du jour and a pint of beer at Vila Priaia de Ancora didn't help. After that it was ten kilometres along the coast to the Alberge at Carminha, quite a lovely seaside town at the mouth of the Rio Mino, which divides Portugal from Spain. Here the way splits. Some will take the ferry across to Spain and continue along the coast; others will stay on the Portugese side of the river and cross into Spain at Valenca.
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