Santiago de Compostela

Once again I wander up to the cathedral. The Galician pipes are still wailing as I walk through the tunnel. The little red train with its string of toy carriages makes its routine incursion into  the Praza del Obradoiro, but there are no silver-painted Saint Jameses or attendant angels trying to stay motionless in the wind. The  place is alive with pilgrims, cameras out, recording the momentous arrival, some with selfie sticks, others having their photos taken by fellow pilgrims or obliging bystanders like me. One large group, twenty or more, pose in front, and the same photo is taken by twenty cameras in turn. Pilgrims sit with their backs against the columns of the government buildings to the west, gazing at the cathedral. Others lie flat on their back on the paved stones of the square.

Some stand, some sit, some crouch, some carry one another. Some people assume the most unusual poses. One fellow lies prone, while his mate takes a photo from foot level. A colourful lady in purple dances for a video. A couple rest their camera against a hand bag and scramble to get in position, crouched with thumbs up for the timed photo. The cathedral is always patiently behind. I suspect it features in the background of more photos than anywhere else in Christendom.

On one side of the square a party of school children are being taught CPR by a steam of first responders. They pump away at the dummies on the ground. Seems appropriate, for this is a place of respiration and revival. In the corner of the square is a van with a few armed police standing by.

It’s the range of pilgrims that is so astonishing: the occasional single old man or woman, older couples, young couples, pairs of men or women, family groups, a mother with her young daughter, lots of young people, and not today, but perhaps yesterday or tomorrow, the Swedish and the Spanish couple with their baby. I see some dogs that may have walked the Camino as well. 

This is the scene every day of the year.

I visited the Pilgrim’s Office today to get my compostela. It’s a slick operation now, and technological, in an effort to keep up with the increasing number of pilgrims arriving each day. I spent more time outside the office than in, trying to work out how to scan the code that was supposed to simplify the process, until an official took pity on me and allowed me to fill in my details on an old fashioned piece of paper. I was given a number and I had to wait until it flashed on a screen: 168 Mesa 13. The lady at Table 13 scrutinized my credential very carefully, asked me about missing dates, and then gave me my compostela, made out to Carolum , accusative case in keeping with the text. I’ve always wondered whether they would have a go at my surname, to wit, Carolum Moodium, or perhaps, as my Latin teacher sometimes referred to me, as  Carolum Saturninum. What do they do with Christian names that don’t have a Latin equivalent?

This time I had lunch at the Restaurant Garigolo, for 12€, better value much further from the cathedral. Quiet ambience with Pachebel-Canon-type music in the background. The lentil soup was excellent, and the curried chicken, like the restaurant,  left a good taste in my mouth.

A few final comments.

First, an insightful and incisive reader has pointed out that my use of the word “inflammable” when referring to “inflammable eucalypts”may have confused some people. To those of my generation, “inflammable” was the only word we had to describe something that would easily burst into flames.  More recently, because the Latin prefix “in” also means “not”, benign language authorities have encouraged the use of the word “flammable” instead, lest someone think it safe throw an inflammable substance on the fire. But both words are current.

And a couple of parting comments about having a beer at a bar in Spain. First it’s wonderfully cold, for the barman serves it in a frosty glass from the freezer. Second, it’s always served with little tapas, which may sometimes constitute a small meal. I have just foregone supper, because my beer came with a small bowl of potato chips, seven or eight olives, and a chunk of tortilla. How civilized!

My parting words of advice? The Invierno is a demanding but rewarding camino of great natural beauty for someone who wants to escape the madding crowd. And If this were my first camino, knowing what I know now, I would walk the Camino Frances, but leave as early as possible in April, or later, in October. 

Camino Invierno: 12. Outeiro to Santiago de Compostela. 16 kms.

Sluggisher and sluggisher

Well, here I am at Santiago. No fanfare for my arrival, though. Just the wailing of Galician pipes. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m at the end, or whether my body’s worn out, but I couldn’t go any further.

I had no choice but to leave early from the regimented municipal albergue at Outeiro. At eight o’clock all the lights went out, even though it was still dark outside. I had wondered why I couldn’t find the light switches. Everything was automatic and timed. Last night at ten o’clock, the lights in the dorm went out, and at seven o’clock in the morning they came on again, but then at eight, everything went out.

It would have been an easy day, but I was sluggish. In fact, when I walked the same stretch five years ago, I fair bounded along. Not this time. It was up and down over slight hills and valleys, keeping on minor roads, and eventually passing through hamlets which have now been swallowed up by the city. In fact, the Way takes you to within a couple of kilometres of the city before it leaves you on a city street, and there is the cathedral on the horizon.

I passed by the cathedral, but will spend more time there tomorrow. For lunch I had the menu del dia at Cafe de Ripoffeiro close by. Caldo Gallego with a few beans, potatoes and spidery kale swimming in a thin broth, watery roast beef, and soggy flan. All for 17€. A few days earlier, at the Hostal where I was staying, I’d had a magnificent caldo, thick with the appropriate ingredients.

I ventured down for a coffee at the familiar grand assembly of tables on the pavement opposite Alameda Park. Further from the cathedral was better value for money. Crows and pigeons scrambled below and fluttered above the tables looking for crumbs. A pigeon landed on my table, his eye on the cellophaned cake that came with my coffee. He wouldn’t be shoed away.

I’m staying at the Hotel Fonte de San Roque, with a nice view, not of the spires of the cathedral, but the twin stovepipes on the roof across the street. I rather like these cheaper hotels in the old towns. They have poky little odd-shaped rooms (in fact this one is trapezoid), because they’ve been forced into old buildings. They are essentially clean but with rusty patches and eroding plaster in the bathrooms. There is no bath, but a shower closet with those sliding or folding doors that may or may not close. If you’re lucky, the shower is fitted on its fixture and directs the water at you and not the wall behind you. The toilet is squashed into whatever space remains in the bathroom. But you get what you pay for.

Camino Invierno: 11. Silleda to Outeiro. 24 kms

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky. (Wordsworth)

I set out early this morning. I have to say that the Buen Camino app saved me several times as I blundered around in the darkness trying to find the way out of town. I couldn’t find any arrows in the town itself. A gust of wind whipped off my Tilley, which narrowly escaped been run over by a car. Not for the first time.

The blustery night turned into a very blustery day.

I had breakfast this morning with Lionel, the Frenchman, one of the group of pilgrims from the Invierno. Of the others, Carlos has gone ahead, but the Spanish couple with the baby and the older couple with the decorated backpacks are still with us.

I walked by a plantation of the metamorphic gum trees I mentioned yesterday. They do grow straight and tall, even if not very thick. Someone must be using the timber as I passed a stack cut into lengths. 

I have mentioned the gorse, but for the first time I saw some broom in flower, a late bloom broom.

The broom in bloom is mainly in the combe.

I stopped for coffee at Bandeira and ran Into a couple of young Canadians, Allie and Caleb from Vancouver. They had walked  the Sanabrés from just north of Zamora. The conversation and the café con leche lifted my spirits, and then I walked out of town towards a rainbow.

How I love people who care about dogs! Shortly after leaving Bandeira, I encountered a roaming lab who had recently had puppies. She attached herself to me and walked with me for 15 kms, despite my best efforts to send her home. If I stopped, she stopped, and when I tried to sneak away, she followed. I was concerned about her, as I knew that busy roads were up ahead. She followed me down the big descent into Ponte Ulla, and there, to my great relief, as I walked past some houses, a lady recognized her, and said she was in the habit of following pilgrims. I suspect she was on the lookout for her. As she had done before, she took her in and was going to phone the owner. I remembered a dog on the Camino Francés that used to meet pilgrims in the morning, walk with them during the day, and then return ready to begin again the next day. This friendly lab was doing the same thing. A dog must have somewhere to go.

Apart from the dip down and up again, it was an easy day with a bit of road walking and the occasional incursion into the woods.

I won’t dwell on the thousand-foot climb at the end of the day. It was as if the Camino was making us suffer one last time before releasing us to Santiago.

There are seven of us here in a modern, but with no frills, municipal albergue.

 at Outeiro. Only 16.7 kms to go!

Camino Invierno: 10. Lalin to Silleda. 17kms

Bonzer Gronze

What would I do without Gronze?

I have to say it’s a bonzer

Website: everything about the Way,

Where to go and where to stay,

But one complaint, if I may?

It’s always further than they say!

(“Bonzer” is an Australian word meaning “good”, as in, “He’s a bonzer bloke.” It is thought that Australian soldiers brought the word back from the First World War, after hearing the French say, “C’est bon, ça.” Perhaps a more appropriate word to have brought back from the trenches would have been “malzer”.)

In the opening chapter of The Old Ways: a Journey on Foot,  Robert Macfarlane writes about the tradition of  walking and mentions the poet Edward Thomas:

To Thomas, paths connected real places, but they also led outwards to metaphysics, backwards to the past, and inwards to the self.

That just about sums it up for me. Walking provides the solitude necessary to think, and the natural rhythms of the body stimulate reflection and introspection. 

Last night I stayed  at the Hotel Palacio (40€). I forgot to mention that the Albergue-Hostal Carpinteiras in Rodeiro was very good.

I was sluggish this morning. Must have been the second Estrella Galicia.

Overcast again, but bit of a red tinge behind me This was the nicest walk out of a Camino town that I have ever experienced. Instead of progressing along city streets until they finally petered out, I was walking through a park, and then along a footpath  beside a brook. I was in the fields in a matter of minutes. The path continued for several kilometres.

And then, it was along minor roads beside major roads, including a stint beside the motor way, before I realized I was off track. When I found my way back to the Camino I was on the Camino Sanabrés. I had walked the Camino Invierno!

The highlight of the day was a stretch of very ancient road, (cobbled is not the word, for these were very large stones that made up the pavement), leading across the Roman bridge, Ponte Taboada. I struggled to get a photo.

And then, as I walked up the road from the bridge, I was passed by a dozen or so pilgrims in very high spirits. Well, they would be. They were wearing day packs, or no pack at all, while I was struggling with a lead weight on my back. I walked in to town through another oak wood. Majestic oaks, this time.

I was thinking of going a little further, but I feared that the group of packless pilgrims might have booked out the accommodation at the next town. All along the way I had been passing advertisements for the Touristico Albergue, so I decided to reward their efforts by staying there. Nice room with a balcony for 20€.

Sufficient unto the day….

Camino Invierno: 9. Rodeiro a Lalin. 23 kms

An old man labours up a hill, 

A daily trek, for come what will,

Whatever fate the gods bestow,

A man must have somewhere to go.

Fortune smiled on me this morning. A couple of hundred yards down the hill from the albergue, the Hungarian pilgrim was stopping to adjust her pack. As she picked up her poles, I realized, bloody hell, I’ve left mine at the hostel. That would’ve been the second pair of hiking poles I’ve left behind on the Camino. 

Today was an easier day and I was going to take it easily. I was the last to leave at 8:45.

A few kilometres along the highway, and then off into the woods. In the distance, I can see the wind turbines on the ridge, all turning today, nine out of nine. Perhaps the ones I saw yesterday hadn’t broken down at all, but were just taking a day off. Twenty minutes later, I see them again. Sixteen this time, but one is idle.

A very pleasant stroll along the bank of a river and then up into the woods again. I notice very beautiful, delicate gossamer webs in the gorse bushes, occasionally in the broom, but they seem to prefer the gorse. I guess the tiny spiders attach the webs to the prickles. That’s the reason, of gorse!

I can hear the silence. This is what I need today. No spectacular views, no historic monuments, no interesting diversions. Peace and calm and quiet. Just a walk in the woods. Frost would have written a poem about this. And I may have miles to go before I sleep, but they are easy miles.

I pass through the first hamlet of the day, the only sound, the click clack of my poles and the dogs’ response, and then the humming of machinery, perhaps milking. An old man with a stick labours up a hill. Wasn’t that the riddle of the sphinx? What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three in the evening?

I pass a sign telling pilgrims to wear a mask. I remember reading that in the early days of the pandemic, the people were wary of pilgrims bringing the plague to their village. Not for the first time in history.

A tractor crawls up the hill, carrying a bale of hay to cows in the field above. Two dogs run along side, enjoying the jaunt.

Up the road for a bit and then off across the field again on an old road. Across the creek again and then along an interesting stretch: a regular fallen stone wall on one side, keeping out the forest, but on the other, a row of taller stone pillars. What was that all about? Was a nobleman’s worth was measured by the size of the fence posts?

 A serious road this, cobbled, still in use, for a tractor comes up behind me.

And then, in successive villages a tale of two cemeteries. In both, the tombs above ground, of course, but in one, the crosses rise above, of equal height. Death is the great leveller. But in the other, the statues of the dead stand tall as if to outdo each other. One man, perhaps the most important in the village, stands in a suit and tie on the wall above the rest, gazing out on the land that once perhaps was his.

It was time for lunch. I find a place to sit down, but notice the barbed wire just in time. A little further on, a smooth rock. Across the stone fence, a dozen cows graze in the lush grass, and in the field beyond an old man is walking up the hill, carrying a net. What is he trying to catch? Another figure in black, perhaps a woman, is brushing at the bushes with her hands. What is she doing? This could be a scene from any century, except for the eucalypts on the horizon. I remember the historical novel I read, set in Roman times, when Hannibal or somebody is passing under the eucalyptus trees. Big anachronistic blunder, that one. 

I am half way. Time to move on. I press on, my pack, a little lighter for the lunch I have eaten. I made a mistake yesterday at the supermarket and somehow ordered a pound of ham and a pound of cheese, enough to get me to Santiago.

I pass five crocus, only one pointing the way to Santiago. I realize now why some of the fences are made of large slabs of stone. It was simply the way they were quarried. These slabs could be embedded in the earth, like fence posts, and up to my right on the hill I see a quarry with they probably came from. Some of these slabs must weigh a tone. What a job to construct this fence!

I pass through another village with a fine stone horreo dated 1852. Few of them are functional now, and have become ornamental features. This one has polished wood on the sides.

Along the highway, and then off on a minor road to the left and then, what a gem, a mediaeval bridge, not artistic, but practical, just as it was for nigh on a thousand years, stones worn down and covered in cow shit. The only thing out of place is the anachronistic gum tree in the background. A rural scene, indeed, always the stink of cattle in the air.

I pass a stand of young eucalyptus, salmon gums perhaps, their leaves a characteristic blue-green against the darker green of the trees behind. But wait! Those behind are the same tree. These amazing gum trees undergo a metamorphosis. The saplings have wide blue-green leaves: those of the older trees are thinner and green-brown. But sometimes the older trees retain a few of the younger sprigs, a reminder of their lost youth.

I have been reading that these eucalyptus have proved highly inflammable in the fires that swept through Spain.

 Even the  long climb at the end of the day with the cool wind, blowing down on my sweaty T-shirt, is almost enjoyable. A great day!

Camino Invierno: 8. Chantada to Rodeiro. 27 kms

I set out in thick fog. I thought that if there were any spectacular views today, I wasn’t going to see them. But the fog lifted by the time I reached the high places.

Chestnuts were scattered and splattered along the road, apples were rotting in the ditch. I passed a few cows in a barn right on the road. How could these these small farmers survive with just half a dozen cows and a few acres of land?

I passed the first horreos I had seen, those raised rat-proof sheds for storing grain, three or four of them in a row. I really am in Galicia, although the shells still point the wrong way from time to time.

Then I left the road and walked for some time along the dirt road to the side of the highway. Gorse in flower along the sides, purple heather peeping through as well. Lots of blackberry, the fruit all gone. Ugly chopped stalks of corn on the field to the side, bent over this way and that, depending on the direction of the harvester. A farm road this, I had to edge aside to avoid being squeezed by a tractor. Altogether, a very pleasant stroll .

I passed the 100 km marker. If I were conscientious, I would now be getting two stamps a day for the Compostela. This was too easy. When was the big climb?

I had hoped that this gentle climb would continue forever and that I would reach the high point without realizing it. But no, suddenly I was climbing up a steep, dirt road, paved with concrete in sections, up, up, up, and up, until it levelled out in a bit of a hollow and then reached a bitumen road where I continued to climb.

Then I was up in the land of the wind turbines, a long line of trilobites, stretching along a ridge to the next hill, slowly turning when the mood took them, some more lazily than others, some not at all. They were taking a day off.

Almost at the top, I let myself be deceived by stations of the cross lining a steep green sward stretching upwards. Was this a short but steep way up to the summit while the road took the long way round? A crocus beckoned. I walked up the grass to a chapel at the top. But then there was also a marker pointing back down. I followed it to find that the Camino had forked sharply to the right, just ten yards beyond the stations of the cross. I had been on the highest point on the Camino without realizing it.

And that’s another thing. On every pillar or pole or space where it is possible to stick something, I am told that Jesus loves me. Now He may or He may not, but I’m sure He wouldn’t be telling me so 34,107 times. I wonder at the mentality of someone who imagines that one of the stickers might effect a conversion.

After that long, long climb, it was pretty much downhill for the rest of the day. Above me to the left was the line of turbines, turning more enthusiastically now that the wind was up a little. But not all of them. In one sampling of nine, I counted only five of them turning. This has always been my experience: some are always out of action. I imagined the maintenance involved to fix them. To climb up the ladder inside to get to the turbine or the generator, would be like yesterday’s climb. 

To my right, I looked over a glorious patchwork of woods, fields and villages  to a range of mountains that the Camino Francés was likely passing across. I imagined that I could see O Cebreiro.

As I left the ridge, I passed a ganglion of insulators and cables and connections that led to transmission towers, taking away the electricity from the turbines to fuel coffee machines, and other devices for our comfort.

And then down, down, to the fields below with still quite a walk to the town of where I am staying at an albergue.

I have learned that Carlos and Fernando are Portuguese, not Spanish. That explains why they speak English so fluently. Carlos confirmed what a Portuguese pilgrim had told me years ago. The Portuguese speak English because their films are subtitled, not dubbed, as in France and Spain. Young people watching American cartoons and films learn English without realizing it.

Camino Invierno: 7. Monforte de Lemos to Chantada. 33 kms

I wrestle with a rhyme.

As I struggle on a climb.

Up interminable mountain slopes.

But I give up with a curse

For the Oxford Book of Verse

Is well beyond my wildest hopes.

Today was cool and overcast, perfect weather for a walk in the woods. But the sun came out at the end of the day, in time for the brutal climb

It was a long, easy stroll out of town towards the hills. Red tomatoes on the vine, giant kale, melons in the field looking rather like pumpkins. Sheep were safely grazing.

Some gentle ups and downs, and then a more serious climb, and suddenly a lovely walk through the foothills along an ancient road carved around the the contour of the hill, a high stonewall on one side, a buttress against the field above, and a shorter one on the other, for the land sloped down. Then a sharp turn to the right, and I was walking on ancient stones where pilgrims must’ve trodden for a thousand years before me. This was an ancient road indeed , medieval, perhaps Roman, and every so often a similar road branched off, probably to an ancient hamlet. And then I arrived at the little hamlet of Piñero, once the destination of this road, but now reached from the other side by a modern road.

But this ancient path continued. As I walked over thick brown leaves rustling beneath my feet, oaks reached across to make a canopy. A few autumnal crocus had popped up their heads only to be knocked over in the direction of Santiago. But wait. A few survived behind a rock, spared by pilgrim feet.

This was the Camino that I loved, walking on ancient roads where many had gone before, constantly changing direction, not knowing what was round the next corner.

And then out into the open, high up on the slopes with hazy hills off to the left across a valley.

But then, the descent, on the medieval road again, straight down the slope at a steep angle for a thousand feet. I trod carefully over the rocks that made up the pavement, for any one of them might have tossed me for a tumble. Down to the water, with the little mishap which I mention later, across the bridge, and dreading the steep ascent, 1,000 feet up again.

A modern road looped back and forth up to the top, 1,000 feet up, but the Camino followed the medieval road for the most part, straight up, cutting across the loops. The first section was the best stretch of ancient cobbled road I have ever seen.

It was as steep as anything I have climbed. I stopped for breath every thirty or forty paces, and at longer intervals sat on the stone wall to recover. I am getting into the swing of things. I could not have done this a week ago.

When I finally reached the summit, I still had three or four kilometres to the town of Candada. A long, long day.

A word about apps and websites. On my first Camino, I didn’t even have a telephone. I may have used a telephone card, I forget. All has changed. Pilgrims are constantly looking at their phones, and so do I when I’m stuck. I use the website Gronze for planning the day ahead, and if I get lost, I use an app called Buen Camino, which the German lady with the dog had put me on to. It shows me where I am relative to the Camino. There must be similar apps.

It helped me twice today. First, when I’d come down the 1200 foot descent to the river towards the end of the day.  I’d missed a little path off to the right and down to the water, and was heading on along the track, expecting it to loop around and down. But it didn’t and was starting to climb again. Pilgrims down below across the water were yelling and screaming to attract my attention, but I didn’t hear them. Sensing something was wrong, I looked at the app and found I was off the Camino. I retraced my steps, and descended. And later, when I arrived at Candada, the app showed me where my Hostal was.

Thanks to those of you who have commented on my posts. I haven’t responded because I am having technical problems with Blogger.

Camino Invierno: Monforte de Lemos

The Man from Alaska

(Who sat next to me at dinner in El Acebo de San Miguel)

Did you know that I’m Alaskan, Alaskan born and bred, 

I’m gonna tell you now, I’d rather be dead than red.

I have a bit of trouble with this foreign lingo, see,

But Jesus spoke English and that’s good enough for me.

I wanna know why you commies kept us out,

Because of the pandemic, what’s that all about? 

Why should I be vaccinated? I will past the test.

I’m one of the chosen ones, to hell with all the rest.

According to my source or truth, (that’s Fox News),

Your next prime minister, has conservative views

Like mine, not asinine, but based  on freedom too.

I would have joined those truckers, God bless the crew,

They stood up for their rights, to occupy a city,

To do what they wanna do, that’s the nitty gritty!

Now I really hate to say it, but I do make this projection,

Those bloody Commie bastards may steal your next election.

 

(With apologies to American rellos. And there really was an American senator who thought that Jesus spoke English.)

I have decided to take a rest day and stay another night at Hotel Condes de Lemos. (45€). Tomorrow is another 30 kilometres with a 1500 foot climb. In fact, it will be more than 30 kms, for my hotel is at least two kms out of town. I was so exhausted, I grabbed the first place I could find.

As I wandered around town, I felt rather like an old sea dog who had just come ashore after months at sea.

I called in at the Centro de Interpretación do Camino de Invierno, a most helpful source of information, with a frightening panel on the wall of what is to come. This camino is really for the young and fit. I am not the former. I hope I am becoming somewhat the latter.

I walked up to the medieval fortress, which included the Torre da Homenaxe and the Monesteiro Beneditino de San Vincente do Pino, whose statue, I thought, looked more like Gandalf.

I had been thinking that I wouldn’t see my Camino friends again — Carlos, or Fernando Bragando and his Korean companion — who had been most kind and helpful, but when strolling around the town I ran into Carlos, who had also taken a rest day. One of those typical Camino Coincidences.

I enjoyed a menu de dia in the shade on a wide pedestrian street: cheese salad, chicken shiskebobs, and ice cream, all washed down with an Estrella Galicia.

Carlos joined me for lunch. I was commenting on the kindness of the locals in leaving out water bottles along the street for the pilgrims. No, he said, that’s to stop the dogs from peeing on the wall. The bottles were filled with water to create a reflection that would frighten off the dogs. Not so much a “little nameless act of kindness and of love” but a very deliberate preventative measure.

All in all, a nice restful day.

Camino Invierno: 6. Quiroga to Monforte de Lemos. 36 kms

I set out in a bit of a drizzle.

But I wasn’t going to grizzle.

For I was glad of relief from the heat.

But then it became a mizzle

And ended in a fizzle

Lucky was I that it wasn’t sleet.

There are good days and not so good days. This was one of the latter.

I walked along the Main Street out of town, and then up and up, always up. For a while it was light in the sky behind me as the sun struggled to get through. Wisps of cloud were resting on the mountains across the valley. It was a more sombre beauty than yesterday.

That scent again. Could it be cinnamon?

I climbed and climbed, and then I turned off the road and walked up towards a ridge through what was once a pine plantation. But now, on either side, the trees had been felled, and only stumps remained, blackened in one area, so a fire had passed through here, unless the foresters had deliberately burnt the remaining  brush. I passed by several mangled messes of branches, not worth harvesting, but good pickings for those with a woodstove. This may once have been a mediaeval path, but it was a now a forest road.

This wasn’t the most scenic of days. I walked through barren landscape, scarred by the roads that had been cut through the forests to harvest trees. It was ugly.

I had thought that I might stay at A Labrada, but somehow I missed it, and I eventuallly arrived at A Prodo. Twenty-four kilometres, that was enough for me. However, there was no accommodation at all. Brierley says the mayor and council are eager to welcome pilgrims, but I certainly wasn’t welcomed. The nearest accommodation, they said, was at Monforte, 12 kms on. What to do? I thought I might throw myself to the mercy of the council or the civil guard, but being the afternoon, everything was closed.

So I pressed on. This last stretch beside the river was mostly flat, and apart from one bugger of a climb, an easy stroll, if I hadn’t been exhausted.

This was my most difficult day, and not my most enjoyable. And yet, I covered two Gronze steps in one day, something I have never done before. Mind you, they were shorter steps than usual for Gronze.

Camino Invierno: 5. A Rúa de Valdeorras to Quiroga. 29 kms

It was a hard, hard day, with lots of ups and downs.

I realized that to to get through this long day, I would have to fall into full Camino mode, that is, not consult my watch or my map to see how far I had to come and how far i had to go, but to drift on and take everything as it came. And so I did.

Half the time I was on a road which wound up and around the top of the valley, but always with the river and the railway line far below. Often, seemingly for no reason, I would take off up a steep dirt track, or a minor road, and then come plunging down again. But I believe there was a reason for this which I shall explain later.

Just out of town, I was passed by a couple of the pilgrims, an older couple but younger than I, their packs adorned with pilgrim paraphernalia, shells, gourds, labels of distances travelled on various previous Caminos. Between them they must’ve added up to 5000 km.

I crossed into the province of Lugo. At the peak of the climb, I entered the little stone village of Alvaredos, passing under some giant kale plants, more like trees, really, that reached over my head. But I was more interested in a fig tree ahead where I tasted three of the most delicious figs I’ve ever had in my life. Along the street was a little pilgrim stand with a stamp and some fruit.

It was a beautiful morning. Again, I sang a refrain from Oklahoma.

O what a beautiful morning

O what a beautiful day.

I’ve got a wonderful feeling,

Everything’s going my way.

Then I reached over and touched a tree trunk. 

I passed a Galician marker with the shell pointing in the right direction. I had 190 km to go but I will have to take gronze steps if I am to make it before a flight out on the 19th.

On a steep descent towards the road below. I walked past a stretch of newly erected railing, marking the edge of a drop. On the roads above there were no barriers or posts to prevent cars from plunging over the cliff, but here, was thoughtful railing, to prevent the staggering pilgrim from disappearing. European money perhaps. Oh, those silly Brits!

On one of the high roads, I looked across the valley at more evidence of Roman mining, this time, not by ruina montium, but by causing a landslide and washing out mud to retrieve the gold. They didn’t muck around, the Romans.

I was anxious to eat some lunch, and a little further on I ran into the couple with the decorated packs who had stopped at an old olive mill. The millstones remained, and so did the olive trees across the street. Despite the couple’s warning that you could eat the olives right off the tree, I tried one. Quite vile, and the taste remained with me for several kilometres.

Clearly the local inhabitants aren’t fed up with the pilgrims as I suspect they must be on some other caminos.  I often passed water bottles left out for pilgrims, and in the little village of Momtefurado, they were deposited at intervals along an entire street.

Towards the end of the day, I crossed what must have been a medieval, if not Roman, bridge, for a little later on I walked along (what I think was) a magnificent stretch of Roman road with the wheel ruts clearly evident. I had been thinking that we were leaving the road so often to follow up and down these things dirt trads and tracks, simply because they (whoever they are) wanted to keep us away from road traffic. But now I’m thinking that we were indeed following the path taken by medieval pilgrims, and they would have used the old Roman road.

Each day I walk through ancient villages with their crooked streets, for there were no surveyors then: houses and barns just popped up along the road. In some of the villages many of the houses have been restored, but some remain with collapsed beams and heaps of rubble where a family once lived. Some show evidence of a half-hearted attempt at restoration. Many of the houses have sagging balconies, supported by weathered beams anchored in the stone. The families would have sat out there and chatted with their friends in the street below. Not any more. Some were in danger of collapsing. Yesterday, I walked along a street of abandoned buildings, silent now, where once there would have been lively sounds of animals below and people above.

At last, I arrived at Quiroga, where I am staying at the Hostal Quimper. The most comfortable room so far. All the pilgrims on this stage are staying here: the Bragger (not such a bad fellow after all), his travelling companion, a Korean (but not his girl friend), Carlos, and the couple with the heavily heavily adorned backpack.

Incidentally, I have been referring to my route as the Camino Invierno, but on every sign I see, it’s the Camino de Invierno.