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.