Camino Portugues. Day 12. June 3, 2016. Padron to Santiago. 24 kms

How little thought the octopus

Gives to humans such as us

When swimming in his inky sea

Awash in octopedal glee!

"Although I am an octopus, 

Certes," he said, "I'm not a wuss.

It's hardly my fault, meo culpo,

I lie before you, dressed as pulpo."

For dinner last night, I treated myself to a superb meal of pulpo, which came with another bowl of the "blushful Hippocrene" in a quantity that exceeded the specified capacity to the same extent that advertised distances to bars or gites exceed the actual distance. In Galicia they serve the vino tinto cold. And I have to say, it's not bad. Having raved so much about pulpo, I thought I should show you what it looks like on the plate. The chunks are symmetrically arranged and the tentacle ends strung aesthetically on top.

I am surprised that it's not a delicacy around the word. After all, the seas abound with octopi. Last year on the Camino I asked some Aussies whether they ate pulpo down there. "Octo-bloody-pus? No bloody way, mate. All it's bloody good for is bloody fish bait."

These are the instructions I had to follow in the bathroom. I was intrigued by the potential traffic jams on the sewer highways but wiill spare you my crude speculations.

My roommates at the bunk hotel were early risers, so I too set out at a bonne heure. It was an uneventful day on minor roads with short stretches on the highway. The day grew warmer, but this scarecrow was not suffering in the heat.

Only the last part was frustrating as it took forever to walk through the suburbs of Santiago, up and down, over and under motorways and ring roads. It was a long 24 kms, even with this encouragement.

And at last I arrived in the old city!

What a madding crowd! Colourful humanity in all its shapes and forms, from grubby hippies to elderly couples, walking, talking in a Babel of tongues, drinking, dining on the plazas, largely oblivious to the local inhabitants who try to make a living out of them: the jugglers, the comedians, the silver-painted ladies posing as statues along with Santiago and a visibly pregnant angel (you've to keep working), the jazz guitarists and classical trios and Galician bagpipers who like to play in the tunnels where their pipes are even more strident, the ladies in white with samples of cakes and the hawkers in black who try to entice you into their restaurant, the street vendors with all their Jacobean paraphanalia, the girls handing out pamphlets advertising excursions to Finisterra for those whose feet won't take them there, and of course, the beggars.

And in the great Praza de Obradoiro, people throng: on one side, with their backs against the arcade of the town hall, pilgrims sit and gaze in silent contemplation at the cathedral. Others, exhausted, lie flat on their backs on the stones. Individuals cheer as they recognize their friends. A cyclist arrives to be greeted by his family, and his baby recognizes him with a smile. On crippling blisters, a lady hobbles at a snail's pace, and a couple of nuns stroll across the square, a vanishing species. And all the while, the wail of Galician pipes.