Hail to thee, O Humble Celandine!
Thy flower belies thy Properties unseen,
For from thy stem thy precious bane is sought,
Anathema to every Common Wart.
O Epidermal Pest! Wart thou never wert,
When once thou tasted but a tiny spurt
Of poison from the humble celandine.
Avaunt. Begone. Thou'lst not return, I ween.
(with apologies to Shelley)
It was Jacques who pointed it out to me, this ubiquitous little plant that grows on of stone walls. When you snap the stem a yellow liquid oozes out, a veritable wartsbane!
A friendly Spaniard showed me the way out of town, despite the arrows at regular intervals. He had spent some time studying in Ontario. Then I ran into the pilgrim parties again. A pious fellow told me in halting French that he was looking forward to the mass at the cathedral in Santiago. He belonged to one of the many groups who are walking the minimum 100 kilometres required to get their credential. Others are doing The Best of the Camino, discharged from minibuses at the edge of town and picked up again before the next industrial zone.
I send to him, "But it doesn't need doin'.
He said to me, "It keeps us from ruin.
Sorry, mate, I've got to get crackin'."
Besides, it was hardly good for the environment: replacing all that vegetation with diesel fumes. On the other hand, I saw the local farmers hauling the bracken away with their little trailers, so it was serving some useful purpose.
I have seen many workers employed on jobs that didn't need doing, such as the group of men who were pulling up the weeds between the stones on the road. Some would say that is why the country is in such economic trouble. I would say that you have put people to work.
It was a lovely leafy stroll through the woods below the railway line, the autoroute off in the distance with the noise of traffic softened by the trees. Just when I was thinking that it was about time for a coffee, I met Trevor and Manzu coming in the other direction. Out of time, and with a train to catch from Pontevedra, they were walking ten kms out and back just to keep up in shape. They told me of the bar just over the rise at San Amaro, where, indeed, I had my coffee.
I continued on into the afternoon until Puente, where a bottle of Estrella sent me on my hazy waysy. A few kilometres further on, fearful of not finding a bed in town, I stopped at the Alberge Catro Canos, just before Caldas de Reis. A nice place, where later I was served a complimentary cake and liqueur.
I walked the petit kilometre into to town and ate at a bar overlooking the bridge where pilgrims were still crossing into town.
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