Camino Invierno: 3. Puente de Domingo Flórez to O Barco de Valdeorras. 20 kms

A distant sound from across the lake.

Get up, get up, for heaven’s sake.

This is your warning, get out of bed.

We are here to bring your daily bread.

I have been asked about other pilgrims on the way. Well, there’s the Swiss couple that I met again last night at the hotel. The Camino is in their blood, particularly hers. Ruth met Manfred on the Via de la Plata 15 years ago. They had walked their separate ways before that. He is German. She is German Swiss. They speak German together which I don’t understand. She speaks French to me which he doesn’t understand, and he speaks English to me which she doesn’t understand. They both speak Spanish with the locals, which I don’t understand, but they interpret for me, which is very helpful. A babel of tongues!

I ate breakfast this morning at the bar of the hostel, just a coffe and croissant, no tortilla. The fellow at the next table was dunking his croissant in his coffee, but it wasn’t that bad. The Spanish version is somewhat heavier than the French and a little greasy.

There is lots of accommodation for pilgrims in this town. I passed an albergue as I came in but because I had booked at Hostal la Torre I continued to the other side of town. I was a little apprehensive  when I checked in, for the girl told me that the bathroom was outside. “Outside?” I said.  “Yes, let me show you.” So she took me up to a very nice little room with a balcony for €22, and then pointed across the hall to the bathroom. The bathroom was outside the bedroom. She was very friendly and helpful. They usually are after they look at my passport. This could be for one of two reasons. 

I was sluggish this morning, and found it difficult to leave. Last night at supper, Ruth had mentioned seeing a couple wheeling a baby. I was surprised because I was sure that the Swedish couple were continuing on the Francés. However, as I left town, I saw them approaching down another street, I waited, but no, it was another couple wheeling a baby and in a regular pram or stroller, not a cart. So there are three more pilgrims on this route.

I left town via a little winding road, half urban, half rural. A cock crew and a chainsaw snarled in the distance. A man was working in his garden. Tomatoes and huge cabbage plants. A bit of going around in circles and then I passed an ugly concrete buttress supporting the municipal water supply. A fire had been through these hills.

I saw from a marker that I was now in Galicia, but strangely the shell hadn’t turned the other way. I was precisely 228.823 km from Santiago. But then after a bit of a bugger of a climb I passed another marker and this time the shell was oriented the Galician way, with the rays towards Santiago. I was now 221 metres closer to Santiago. Stones were placed most artistically atop the pillar. I imagined the pilgrim who was ignorant of the Galician change of direction going up and down the hill like an automaton.

I sat on a bench and rested for a moment looking at this wonderful view. But the sun was rising over the hill. Time to get a move on!

I walked along beside the lake and heard the warning blast of the delivery van.

All over Spain and France in little villages, which have lost their bakeries and other shops, vans drive through at a certain time each day bringing necessities. It’s sad that the bars and bakeries have gone. I remember chatting with an old man in a fairly large village in France. Over there, he pointed, was my boulangerie and on that corner, another one.

I was thinking about the plight of these little villages as I walked through the very crooked street of Pumarez when I heard a shout from the  bedroom window above me. She pointed in the right direction, not the street I had taken. I walked on.

A lady approached me, wearing what I thought was a cross around her neck, but no, it was a bunch of house keys, not the key to the kingdom of heaven.

This was such a lovely walk. I sang a verse from Oklahoma, but then across the river I could see an ugly rumbling factory, with forklifts crawling about and the beeping horns of trucks backing up. I’m not sure what they were making but I could see piles of slate.

Another thundering factory, and then I came to the end of the valley and climbed up and over. There were benches along the way inviting me to sit, but I could see the town of Sobradelo in front of me and was anxious for my hobbit’s second breakfast, tortilla and a coffee.

Not so far now. On to the next village, where I crossed the magnificent  Ponte de Éntoma, which a friendly inhabitant told me was a Roman bridge on a via Romana between Madrid and Ourense, not a major Roman road, but a via segunda. Look at the slate in the arch!

And then, somehow I missed a turn, but friendly ladies assured me that I was going the right way along the highway.

There was a glorious scent in the air. I wish I could identify it. 

And then I could see O Barco ahead of me. I walked quite a distance through this large town to find a room at the Hostal Mayo. As I sat outside enjoying my pint, three other pilgrims arrived, including Carlos, who had walked from Las Medulas after spending two days there exploring the mines.