9. Saxamonde to Pontevedra. 23 km.

 

Arcade

At the Albergue O Corisco I was compartmentalized, i.e., given the lower berth in a double bunker squashed into a narrow recess curtained off from similar quarters. Trouble was, I was setting off early but the top bunker wasn’t, so I had to scramble around in the dark carrying my pack and all my things into a lighted area so I could get organized. This can be hazardous because you can’t check your sleeping quarters in the light. Once I left my sleeping bag behind.

But I made an early start. After a stroll down the the hill into a Redondela, I enjoyed a café con leche and a very succulent tortilla. Then up a couple of hills along the road,  and off into the field and a shady lane leading up to a delightful walk through the woods, indigenous oak and invasive eucalyptus, and down to the town of Arcade.

And then as is so often the case, I left town town via a higgledy-piggledy of little

streets and climbed up again and on to the true Camino, winding around through the woods on an ancient trail, with sandy stretches and stony ascents. I wondered how many of the rocks were in situ and how many were carted there by ox or mule and laid in place to make a road linking village to village.

I sat down and enjoyed some glorious moments of silence. Quite Garfunklean!

Eventually, I came down from the high places and found myself on the outskirts of Pontevedra. I was further ahead than expected.

It’s a short post today, for I am weary. Besides, it is my birthday. And there’s a Brummy in the bunk opposite me and it’s his birthday too. He’s three years younger than I am. I won’t reveal my age other than to say I have exceeded the Biblical lifespan by the number of pennies in a shilling.

Tomorrow I leave the Camino on the Variante Espiritual, a little detour that involves a passage by boat.

8. Benlle to Saxamonde. 19 kms

Albergue Alternativo

 What a joy it is to reach 

The summit of a hill!

Halfway up the bloody climb

You never think you will.

The hospitality of Dries at the Albergue Alternativo  was matched only by that of Fernanda several stops back in Portugal. I could tell Dries was a good fellow by the way he treated his dog, who always seemed to be occupying the chair you were about to sit in. It was not a place for the faint-hearted or lovers of luxury: the rooms were very small and there was only one toilet for ten people. Outside was a yurt and several smaller tents for the overflow, and a kind of treehouse and various outbuildings. Apart from the house, Dries had built everything himself, including an outdoor shower and toilet which offered little privacy. Lengths of lumber lying around the yard promised future construction. A good meal and breakfast were included ($30 all in), and what impressed me most was the concern for his guests, which extended to offering advice and booking ahead for us.

In the morning, Dries recommended an alternative route to the next town to avoid an industrial area, but it was a kilometre longer and began uphill, so I took the easier, less pleasant route.

On either side of the industrial road was a long line of large, oblong buildings outdoing each other in ugliness. One was making a threatening rumble; another belching noxious fumes, leaving an acrid odour in the air. However, as someone will point out, if it wasn’t for these ugly places, I wouldn’t be driving a car or wearing clothes or dictating into this electronic gadget. I was fortunate to be able to walk through, and not live here.

I stopped at O Porrini for a coffee and tortilla.

Then I left town, and after a couple of kilometres along the highway I took a quiet, rural road into the woods. As I sat on a bench, a string of electric bikes passed by. These are becoming more numerous. Are the albergues charging for a charge, I wonder.

And speaking of bikes I ran into the big Japanese fellow on the small bike. He explained to me that the bike was small, because it folded up for transport on the plane. Of course!

I was on the Via XIX again, but now it was a tarmacked road. Unfortunately the ancient roads survive only if later road planners found a better route.

Half way up a 200m climb, I changed my mind about how far I was going today. Dries had reserved a place for me in Redondela, but I phoned him, and he kindly cancelled my reservation and got me in at the Albergue O Corisco, three kms nearer. What a joy it is to reach the summit of a hill, to enjoy the levelling out, and to see a sandy path descending gently to a cold beer.

7. Paços to Benlle. 20 kms

The Cathedral at Tui

A Tale of Two Pastas

The one, preparéd with indecent haste:

Rotini formed the base. No sauce, 

But chunks of hard boiled egg were tossed on top,

All garnishéd with tuna from the can, 

A sorry dish, and shunned by every man.

The other, vegetarian, and simple fare,

With sauce ambrosial — a spághetti 

Prepared for pilgrim guests with special care

It was indeed, une assiette si bonne

For words, I search in vain the lexicon.

At the Quinta Estrada Romana, the meal was excellent. It couldn’t have been simpler, but they were working on the sauce during the afternoon. Everyone busied themselves and helped, and made a donation at the end.

I am full of admiration for the walking wounded. Yesterday, I mentioned Keith from Toronto who had wisely taken a taxi over the mountain. Not so, a Czech lady whose name I never did at catch.

In the other room at the Albergue O Inconforto, there were three people from the Czech republic. I noticed that one of the women was hobbling very badly. The other two passed me on the climb yesterday, and I ran into them again at coffee on the other side — of the mountain, that is — and they explained that their companion was making her way slowly behind them. We ended up at the same albergue, but that their companion was stopping nine kms back. But no, a couple of hours later she arrived. Unfortunately, she was in a dorm two flights of stairs up. She had to pull herself up by her arms on the railings. She was always cheerful, laughing about her injury, and I passed her for the last time, this morning, a kilometre from the hostel. She was almost literally moving at a snail’s pace, inching herself along. The three were going to stop at Tui, the Spanish town just across the border, about 11 km on. I hoped she would make it.

At noon, Tui was deserted. I remembered that last time, when I was here in the morning, the town was alive, buses discharging tourists and pilgrims milling around and taking their first steps towards their compostelle. Now, all was quiet. 

I sat for a few minutes beside the river. A father and daughter were just setting off on their pilgrimage. A trio of electric bikers glided by. A Japanese fellow on a real bicycle stopped to enjoy the view. I had met him yesterday having trouble with his chain. I wasn’t surprised. It was a very, very small bike, and he was a big fellow. 

Above me I could see the cathedral of Tui. I thought I would give it a miss, but the Camino had other ideas and led me up through quaint streets to the top of the old town. Into the cathedral, but I had to pay so I didn’t wander. Then down to the river, and past a sad, old convent with stone walls, doors that hadn’t been opened in a decade, barred windows with broken glass, and a probably a few hundred cells inside, few if any, occupied.

I left town and found myself on the Via Romana XIX again, surviving now only as a dirt path. At the town of Ribadelouro I passed what looked like a nice albergue and was temped to stop, but it was early so I decided to press on. But then I changed my mind. O Porriño, the next town was too far, so I retraced my steps to find the albergue.

But I got lost. It’s hard to follow arrows backward, and I couldn’t find the albergue. What’s more, my SIM card had given up, either because i had used all my data or because I was in Spain. Standing bewildered in the middle of town I was rescued by some Spanish ladies who kept growing in number as they sought someone who spoke English. “We’re all family,” they said. To cut a longer story short they drove me to the albergue, only to find it was an expensive guest house and was closed anyway, so they took me back to where they had picked me up. I would have to walk another seven kms to O Porriño.

But fortune smiled on me. A couple of kilometres on, I saw a sign for the Casa Alternativo. I went and it was.

6. Labruga to Paço. 20 kms

“Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”

Ponte Romano-Medieval de Rubiães

I won’t say too much about my stay at Albergue O Conforto, other than to mention I ate the worst meal of any Camino: pasta, the orange spirally kind, overlain by hard boiled eggs and canned tuna, followed by a sticky, sweet, unrecognizable mass of goo. I was going to contact the Casa de Fernanda and ask them to warn pilgrims about staying here, but I saw a note in the kitchen, “Thanks Cecilia for a nice diner (sic)”, so perhaps it was just an off day.

I had heard stories earlier on the Camino about these two albergues in this village run by two sisters who weren’t speaking to each other. I had stayed at one of the albergues. Later in the day, I met a couple who had stayed at the other. They weren’t too impressed either: their evening meal had been omelette and chips. Perhaps the two sisters were trying to outdo each other in inhospitality!

I’m attending mass this morning. Not willingly. I had no choice. It was being broadcast from a church across the valley, at least a kilometre away. At first I thought it was one of those vans with a loudspeaker on top which go round making announcements or advertising products. But no, there was a priest and a chorus of responses and even a hymn. Well, it was Sunday, and I suppose it saved some of the congregation from getting out of bed, but what about the protestants and agnostics and atheists, not to mention the people of other faiths. Too bad for them!

I climbed and climbed, and just when I was walking along a fairly level stretch of road and thinking that this wasn’t too bad, I came upon an arrow which indicated not only a new direction, but the angle of ascent.

Up, up, and up this stony trail, scrambling over some rocks, onwards and upwards. This was practically a technical climb. Where were the ropes?

Then I came to a rugged cross, the Cruz dos Franceses ou Cruz doz Mortos, commemorating an ambush of Napoleon’s troops during his invasion of the Iberian peninsular in 1809. Pilgrims had laid their stones and cards and tokens of remembrance around the cross in a smaller version of the Cruz de Ferro on the Camino Francés. 

  

Up a little further, another cross, and a dirt road, and finally, an easy descent down to Rubiāes. This may not have been the longest climb on the Camino, but it certainly was one of the steepest.

After Rubaiās, i walked many a mille passuum on the Via Romana XIX, an important road which linked Astorga and Braga.

I paused at the Ponte Romano-Medieval de Rubiães. Elsewhere in the world, buildings are collapsing but these bridges remain, simple in design and solid in construction. I suspect the large uneven flag stones were a mediaeval addition to the Roman structure. What a privilege to walk across! 

I chatted at the bridge with Keith from Toronto whose legs are suffering. He had to take a taxi over the mountain and was now limping slowly towards Santiago.

I had planned to walk on to the border, but to avoid imminent rain, I stopped instead at Albergue Quinta Estrada Romana at Paços. Nine kms to the border!

 

5. Casa de Fernanda to Labruja. 25 kms

Thomas, the hospitalero at the albergue two nights ago had recommended the Casa de Fernanda (a few kms before Vitorino dos Piães) where I stayed last night. It was remarkable. 

We all slept in a bunkhouse separate from the family home. Beds with sheets, good shower.

Martin, a loud-voiced Dutchman and former security officer in a mental hospital, and on his sixth visit to the albergue, was playing the role of host when I arrived, plying us with wine and making sure that we knew each other. At one stage when he was making us go around a circle reciting everybody’s name from memory, I thought it prudent to disappear, but perhaps I should’ve stayed and practised in preparation for the big marbles test.

The evening meal was superb. We selected from a variety of dishes: sardines, which I declined, pork, rice, and various chick pea and bean plates.

(Sardines. Now that’s a Proustian moment. I recall the cans and feel the metal  pressing into my finger as I twist the handle to open the can. And the taste, not of the fish  themselves, but the heavy oil they were swimming in.)

After dinner, the host produced bottles of port and firewater, to prepare us for the singalong.

“Charles,” shouted Martin, from the other end of the table, as if I were one of his patients. “You sing.” I was ready to sing Waltzing Matilda, as I’ve had to do in the past when pilgrims were invited to sing a song from their own country, but fortunately, I held back, for it wasn’t that kind of singsong at all. There was actually a song book, but we certainly weren’t all singing from the same one, not the same tune, anyway.

The first song was one I realized I should have known, because everyone else did. “California Hotel”. It didn’t seem to have a tune, or not the way we sang it. And then we sang some Beatles songs, which I knew, of course, but it was difficult to know what key to sing them in. One fellow sang in a particular strident monotone with great enthusiasm. Sometimes Fernanda our hostess joined in with a voice like a wailing banshee. And you can imagine the cacophony when we sang “Hey Jude”. I made my excuses and retired early.

Breakfast was very good as well, with yoghurt, bread, cheese and sausage, and excellent coffee.

All of this for 25€. A couple of fellows who left early, gave me their money to pass on to the host. When I paid, he simply took the money without checking us of his list. I was moved by the trust we all had in each other.

It was a long day with some delightful moments and a serious climb.

As I entered the village of Vitorino dos Piães the clock in the church tower was striking nine very loudly, making sure that everyone was awake, first  the quarters, then the hours, and then, in case someone had been woken up but not caught the time, it struck the hours again.  Very sensible, that. After that, and a short, steep climb, I was hoping for a café at the top of the hill. But there wasn’t one. I chatted with an Aussie from Newcastle instead.

A short stretch of highway and then off to the left, and an absolutely delightful walk along an old road, down and around the side of the valley, with lots of eucalyptus, of course, with its scent in the air, and broome and foxglove, and chirping birds, marred only by the snarl of a chainsaw in the woods, and the the sound and the fury of a two-stroke motorbike racing towards me, the curse of the Camino. As I ended the walk through the valley and entered the outskirts of Seara, I noticed an interesting statue of St. James in the wall. Rather aloof, I thought.

I shall refrain from returning to the theme of why I walk, but I was filled with euphoria as I strolled down this valley in the cool of the morning.

Ponte de Lima is a seaside resort on the river, the promenade lined with grand hotels and other magnificent buildings. You walk into town along an avenue of plane trees and approach the long, low, medieval stone bridge which has given the town its name. I will cross that bridge when I come to it, I thought.

The medieval bridge at Ponte de Lima

I did, and I stopped for a small beer at a bar on the other side. Not a wise decision, for it was harder going afterwards.

I walked along the bank of the river, and came to another cobbled road. A woman was repositioning a stone, which, she said had been dislodged by a tractor. She confirmed that all the stones across Portugal had been laid by hand, originally just in sand but sometimes now in cement. They were historic and were being preserved.

I continued on past olive and walnut groves, and more and more grapevines. One farmer was spraying his vines, with a heavy, evil fog of pesticide. I hurried by.

In Vino Veritas

One day a fog came down upon the vine

And caught the budding insects in their prime.

While we, quite unaware, consume our wine

And stunted trees bear witness to the crime.

It was a bit of a bugger of a climb at the end, only 500-600 feet from bottom to top, but more than that because it was a series of ups and downs.

Finally, at 4:30 I reached Albergue O Conforto, which is not very comfortable and certainly not very hospitable. I have just eaten the worst dinner of my Camino life. But I’m the only person in a two-double-bunk room.

(Sorry about the formatting in this post. Blogger is driving me crazy)

4. Barcelos to Casa de Fernanda. 20 kms

 

Unconcerned

Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

Thou liest, happily, upon the Way.

Upon the Way, but in the way as well,

Whether thou survivest, time will tell.

Ignorance, confidence, optimism or fatalism: there he lay in the middle of the road, oblivious to his peril. Perhaps there was a moral here.

It was a glorious day. I am somewhat rested and relaxed, and I notice as I look at my watch while walking that my pulse rate is 20 or 30 beats a minute less than it was a couple of days ago. To return to that rhetorical question, one of the reasons I keep walking is to get fit. (I am tempted to reflect on what sedentary beings we have become and how we are evolving into easy prey for AI.)

I followed a string of pilgrims out of town along a wide, leafy boulevard. Doves were a-cooing, “doo-doo, doot; doo-doo, doot,” but one with a variation, “doodle-y-doo, doot; doodle-y-doo doot.” Did she just lay an egg? 

As I arrived at a railway line and started walking along, I saw a pilgrim coming towards me along the lane on the other side of the line. I pointed at the arrow in front of me to indicate she was going the wrong way. “No,” she shouted, pointing. “I crossed underneath 500 metres down there.” No train was coming so I hopped over the line.

I headed out towards distant hills through a deep cutting with eucalyptus trees above me on either side. Once again I was walking on a cobbled road. I marvel at their construction. Every individual stone must have been laid by hand. By now, I have walked across billions of these stones and only one have I seen uprooted.

In the distance was a cafe with people sitting outside. A sight for sore pilgrims! I joined Marie the Glaswegian and a German couple whom I had met last night at dinner. Anyone who has walked the Camino will tell you that one of its pleasures is arriving at a cafe and recognizing familiar faces. A couple of Portuguese girls appeared. One said “Hi” several times. “That’s the only word in English,” she knows, said her friend. “Obrigado,” I responded.

I came to a junction and faced a choice: 186 kms to Santiago via the church or 186 kms to Santiago via the wooden cross. I chose the latter, hoping to see an old rugged  cross on a hill far away, but no, it was an unattractive one under a tiled awning in the next village, dated 1926. As I sat on the bench the Portuguese girls arrived. “Hi,” said one of them.

On to the main road, over the crest of a hill, and along a path behind a road barrier, more treacherous than the road itself, so I hopped back on to the pavement. This is not a pedestrian-friendly camino!

And then the highlight of the day, the crossing of a magnificent stone bridge. “Ponto Romano?” I asked a nearby farmer in what I hoped passed for Portuguese. “Si,” he said. But it wasn’t. It was the medieval Ponte das Tábuas, the bridge of boards, a reference to an earlier wooden bridge, according to Brierley. I walked across the massive stone slabs and on to a dirt road, unremarkable but for the rugged stone markers on either side. This was a very old road indeed, and I was not the first to travel there.

At the next town, I resisted the invitation to visit the site of the first Marian apparition in Portugal (1702), and pressed on towards ominous thunder clouds. I thought of the nun on the Chemin de Tours who was horrified when I declined to visit le Christ qui sourit.

About a kilometre before my destination it started to rain. Fortunately, a German couple ahead of me had just rummaged around in their packs and donned their rain gear, so it stopped. I thanked them. I arrived at the Casa de Fernanda.

3. Saō Pedro de Rates to Barcelos. 16 kms

Everywhere I look as I walk: in every direction, on the hills and between the fields, I see stretches of Aussie gum trees.

It is truly remarkable how the Australian eucalypt has colonized the Iberian peninsula.

Even in what remains of European woods, the gum tree is springing up among the native oaks, strangling what remains of the indigenous species. These foreign invaders were not uninvited colonists, of course. Apparently they were thought to provide good timber for the making of furniture. Or so I was told.

The most pleasant moment of the day was a little detour off the road and through one of these Eucalyptus forests. You will see from the stones that mark the border, that this was likely a very old road that would have run through a European wood of oak or beech or ash before the mid-nineteenth century. Now, it’s a forest of tall, thin, dull eucalypts.

After a lousy sleep due to jet lag and a warm dorm, I walked slowly and carefully today. I’m falling a little behind my schedule.

 I’m installed at the Albergue at Barcelos which is less comfortable than last night’s. One dorm, a dozen beds, one set of three showers, two working, for men and women  alike, supplied by a hot water tank on the other side of town. Just when I had given up, and was bracing myself for a cold shower, it spurted out, scalding hot.

The town is nice with quaint streets and little plazas, but not on a grand Spanish scale.

2. Mosteiró to Saō Pedro de Rates. 19 kms.

 “A man’s a man for a’ that”

The Camino really does provide, as I’ll explain, but first, here’s a little background. I was passing Beaver Lake on the way to the airport when I realized I had left my hiking poles behind. Because I was early, I returned home to pick them up. They were compressed, bound up with tape, and I had no trouble getting them through security. At Porto Airport I cut the tape, unscrewed the sections, extended the poles, and tried to tighten them again. To no avail. The devices had jammed and I had to throw the poles away. I hoped to find a new pair along the way. When I asked Isabella, our hostess, if there was a gear store in the vicinity, she said no, and gave me a pair she wasn’t using. So I’m clacking on to Santiago.

My pack was heavier this morning, even though I had lightened it by taking out my heavy boots and replacing them with the light loafers I wore yesterday. And I left some dirty underwear behind as well. I wasn’t really with it, yesterday. Am I ever?

We continued along cobbled lanes. Not rounded English cobbles but small square stones that seem to be standard on the minor roads. I was glad of my boots, for these stones would be very uncomfortable in lighter shoes. Heavy traffic shared these lanes as well and squeezed us up against the stone walls as they passed. Occasionally there were sidewalks, but these were often only a couple of feet wide. I can think of no other city on the Camino more difficult to exit on foot.

You will notice the plural pronoun. For some of the day, I was walking  a Scottish lady, a little difficult to understand with my poor hearing. She comes from Burns country, and we exchanged a line or two. We also discussed our favourite Scottish novelists — Ian Rankin, Val McDermid and Peter May. She recommended the Shetland novels on which the TV series is based.

And then I was overtaken by a couple of tourist pilgrims, Germans, who asked if they could walk with me. They soon regretted their decision when they realized how slow I was. They made their excuses, and raced ahead to catch their bus at the next village.

It was a warm day, 21 degrees when we set out, rising to 24 by the end of our day, but eased by a cooling breeze at the tops of hills. The best things in life really are free, but not the ice cold beer the I enjoyed when we reached Saõ Pedro de Rates.

I am staying at the municipal albergue, managed by Thomas from Wisconsin, a very jovial fellow with whom it was safe to discuss politics. There was trouble, though, when I registered. He seemed to think I was using some older fellow’s passport. Of course, he had to query my date of birth in the presence of other pilgrims, so once again I am an Aged Curiosity.

The facilities here are basic, with “leaner” showers with a tap that you press for a ten-second spray and a loo far enough away to wake me up when I visit during the night.

On one section today, a sign told me that I was walking on a Route of Roman Bridges. There is one of them above.

Camino Portugués. Porto Airport to Mosteiró. 6 kms

For this elderly pilgrim from Porto,

It was further to go than he thought—o,

With an excess of will

He trudged up a hill,

And wished that he’d taken an auto.

The airport at Porto is north of the city, close to a point halfway along the first stage of the camino. So I walked five or six kms to join the camino at Mosteiró, where I’m staying at the Casa dos Caminhos. But it was tough going with no sleep the night before.

I picked up a Sim card at the airport for $35. It seemed a bit steep, but I got 10 gigs of data, and 1,000 local and 100 international minutes,  so perhaps it wasn’t such a bad deal.

Then I set off to find the hostel with my GPS. The latter was a bit confused at first, and tried to lead me onto the runway, but I dodged the planes and headed north along cobbled lanes, rows of houses on one side, and high stone walls on the other, protecting grape vines. And then intermittent fields of corn and the odd vegetable garden. It was more pleasant than it had looked from the air — a massive agglomeration of development with occasional green patches — and was definitely semi-rural. I remembered that as I had come in to land seven years ago, I had looked over the same area, stretching out to the sea, and decided to take the coastal route.

Speaking of which, I noticed that some of my route this afternoon was marked as the Portuguese Coastal Camino, but it wasn’t the path I had taken then. Why would you walk along the east side of the runway, when instead, you could trot down to the river from the cathedral, walk along the bank to the coast, and then tramp along the boardwalk by the sea?

And to quote another rhetorical question, I remember someone saying at breakfast, somewhere on the Camino years ago as we discussed where we had walked before, “How many caminos do you have to walk? You must be wondering the same thing. Well, this is the last one.  But then I said that ten years ago.

I have been seeing those metamorphic gum trees again, eucalyptus which begin with fat baby blue-green leaves that mature to quite different long green-brown ones.