Day 17. October 16, 2016. Grandas de Salime to Fonsagrada. 25 kms

It is now she begins to sing --- at first quite low

Then loud, and at last with a jazzy madness ---

The song of her whistle screaming at curves,

Of deafening tunnels, brakes, innumerable bolts.

And always light, aerial, underneath,

 

Unable to find breakfast in town this morning,  I left before dawn, walking up a lane lit by lamps. With chestnuts crunching underfoot, and the occasional chattering of an early morning sparrow, and a whiff of woodsmoke in the air, I slowly climbed, gently at first, along stony paths, grassy slopes, leafy lanes and paved roads to the little village of Castro. And then it was a more serious climb along the highway, heading towards distant wind turbines on a hill that I knew I must cross.

Then off the road and onto a narrow path along a stone wall, only to find the top was occupied by three or four cows that eyed me warily, and weren't about to move aside to let me pass. I squeezed between a stone wall and a cow with large horns, hoping that she wouldn't  take a disliking to me.

 

Now the wind turbines were just above me. They make a unique swishing sound. Like a bull-roarer, if you know what that is, or the sound of a distant plane, fading in and out in the distance, or rather the romantic music of a train speeding through cuttings on its way to far-away places.

I cut across the road, through a sagging gate that was about to die of exhaustion, and straight up a stony path to the top of the hill, and then over a line of stones marking the border between Asturia and Galicia. No view here, just gloomy pine trees shrouded in mist, and a cold wind trying to push me back to to Asturia.
 
  

Then I reached the point where, if I were a mere automaton, I would turn around and retrace my footsteps, and then turn again, and walk back and forth until the crack of doom, for the shells would seem so to direct me. But no, I was wise to the fact that it was here that the shells change direction, and that whereas until now it was their heads that pointed to Santiago, it is now the rays that indicate the way.

Just over the border, I reached the little bar at El Acebo, a welcome resting place after the long climb, but a bar so full of paraphernalia that there was barely room to hold the pilgrims that were flocking in.

 

It may have been a false impression, but the countryside seemed more sombre now, more austere, dark trees against the black mountain, and masses of pine plantations filling the landscape. I walked carefully between unfamiliar, long, stringy black turds. Did they belong to the wolves that were supposed to inhabit the region?

For much of the afternoon the path followed the highway fairly closely, on minor roads or tracks on either side. At one stage the path was newly constructed of fine grit, wide and steam-roller flat and following the right of way of a hydro line. Clearly, this was a twenty-first century camino, built especially to draw pilgrims away from the dangerous road.

Some towns have a lot of charm, their stone buildings nestling in a hollow or stretching along a street. Not Fonsagrada. From a distance, it was an ugly line of white houses high up on a ridge ahead, a chateau d'eau a stark silhouette against the clouds.

At the top of this long climb, a large lab cross came out to greet me, putting up his head to be patted, and leaning up against me in the way that labs do, as if to prevent me from going on. Would that all Spanish dogs were like him! 

But they are not! I once made the naive suggestion, after a day's walking in Spain, that the dogs were plus gentils than in France. No, I must have encountered an unusual sample of well behaved dogs on that day. In fact, they bark at every passer by, scaring the living daylights out of you if you're lost in your thoughts. For most of them their bark is worse than their bite. A couple of days ago, one came running after me, barking, and then went for my heels --and sniffed. But there are some brutes, bred to be savage. Recently, one dived at me, fangs bared. Fortunately, he was caught short by his chain. I say again, it's not their fault. There is something particularly cruel about keeping a dog on a chain or in a cage and teaching him to be savage.

At the entrance to the town was a sign indicating the albergue. But I gave it a miss, not sure what was going on there. Instead, I'm staying at the Pension Casa Manolo.