Day 4. March 15, 2024. Minas de Riotinto to Campofrio. 11 kms.

I could not have realized more than sixty years ago, when I worked as a student at a Rio Tinto mine in Broken Hill, New South Wales, that one day I would pass through the town where it all began. Relics of the old mine are scattered throughout Riotinto de Minas and just north of the town are the huge open cuts which had been mined for copper, silver and gold for thousands of years. Serious exploitation of these deposits began with the Romans, and reached a peak with the British Rio Tinto mining company in the mid-20th century. That company has gone, but we noticed that parts of the open cuts are still being exploited, if only for road metal.

Two of us walked a short distance today; the others made a detour, but we all arrived at the same destination. For me it was short, but not easy.

I have been led astray by a guide book before. Some years ago on the Chemin de Piedmont, I was led onto a motorway by M. Lepère, and was stopped by the French police. This morning as we followed the trail on the Buen Camino app, we were  walking along a road which ended abruptly in a 100-foot drop. Had we been able to continue on the non-existent road we would have found ourselves in a lake. Clearly, the old road had been quarried away since the path was traced by the developers of the app. Instead we had to walk along a highway which bridged the huge open cut mine. We quickly and apprehensively crossed the bridge against the oncoming traffic. After that harrowing experience, we stopped for a second coffee at a convenient bar.

The Spanish always shout at each other in bars. This time, one very loud fellow shouted at us, jabbing me in the legs, and the one word that I think could understand was “danger”. Was he warning us about bulls? This area was famous for its bullfighting. No, we concluded, he was warning about the traffic on the highway, which would be “charging” us if we continued the way we were going, for we had now given up on the guide and were relying on Google Maps.

We had no choice but to follow the highway as it crossed a lake, probably a flooded area of the old mine. Sometimes we had to walk inside the barrier; at others we could walk outside it on the oxidized boulders and charred rocks that made up the embankment. Occasionally, I would see a tiny poppy struggling to survive in the charred leavings of man’s destruction. There was a moral here.

Eventually, we left the wasteland behind, and followed the highway as it climbed steadily up and around the side of the hill. Suddenly, a yellow arrow appeared and sent us off to the left on what was obviously the old road, up and up and up in the most brutal of climbs. The new highway was now far below. I intended to rest at the summit, and around every bend I thought the road would level off, but no, it continued to rise until eventually I collapsed  by the wayside in the shade of some spindly conifers. And just as there are painful climbs, there are moments of sheer pleasure. I rested beside the road, revived by the cool breeze. I reflected on the notion that you have to experience pain to appreciate joy.

As it happened, the summit was around the next bend, and then I experienced another pleasure that every walker of the Camino will understand: there was the village, sooner than I expected.

Day 3. March 15, 2024. Valverde del Campino to Minas de Riotinto. 27 kms

 

This stretch has to be one of the most lonely, peaceful walks of any camino. Once again we were following the disused railway line, now just a rough country road, although who was using it we don’t know for we were passed by neither car nor tractor. Gone were the bicycles of yesterday as well, for the paved Atlantic cycle trail had taken a turn back to the sea. Indeed, the way in parts was rough for cyclists, although we were passed once by a hardy fellow, probably a pilgrim following the Camino, for this would certainly not be the cyclist’s route of choice.

This was beautiful, wild country, with plantations of conifers, some struggling oaks, olive groves, and of course the intrusive gumtree.

Within easy reach of our destination, we were led astray by a worker in a neighbouring orange orchard who told us we were going in the wrong direction, so we turned around, left the railway line, and surrendered to Google maps, which took us by perhaps the shortest route, but which happened to be down into a deep valley which of course we had to climb out of. Fortunately a lively conversation on a burning issue propelled me up the steep slope to the town of Campillo.

We were very anxious to reach this town for at 20 kms it offered the first refreshment  of the day where I broke a rule and had not one, but two beers. Usually I wait until I arrive at the destination, but that was only four kms away and I could float along the easy terrain.

Now we were back on on the railway trail, but here it had become a wonderful, paved path lining the two towns, and enjoyed by cyclists, families with prams, elderly couples, solitary walkers, a real sample of the Spanish community.

During the course of the day, one of our topics of conversation had been the gregarious nature of the Spanish community, and how it differed from Anglo-Saxon society and to what extent this was the result of climate or the Church.

Not all Spanish are gregarious, however. Earlier, we passed one property whose owner was determined that no one was going to beach his defences. The fence was topped with vicious barbed wire, in case you were temped to scale it. But the outer line of deterrence was a row of cactus, the most alien, ugly, vicious-looking plant I have ever seen. I apologize to any amateur de cactus out there. Many people plant friendly, pleasant flowers along their property line, but not this fellow. 

After the pleasant hotels of the past three nights, we are staying in a room at a sports centre. Gratis but Spartan, just mattresses on the floor. Recently I was reading how an indication of good health and fitness is being able to get up from the floor without using your hands. I can barely get up from the floor using all my limbs, so my nocturnal excursions were more arduous than usual. Still, it’s all part of the experience, they say.

Two of our group were celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary so we celebrated with a fine meal and enjoyed the delicacies of the region.

Day 2. March 14, 2024. Trigueros to Valverde del Camino. 30 kms

 

 The bell on the church tower metallically struck nine as we passed through the centre of town. Al late start! Bright ceramic Camino markers led us to the outskirts where we began walking along the disused railway line. This we followed all the way to our destination, some 30 kilometres later.

These old railway lines are always great paths to follow because the gradients are slight, and indeed we did climb gradually for most of the day. Recalling the steam trains of my youth, I could imagine the engine puffing to get up the hill and then relaxing into a a steady rhythm as the track levelled out. 

As we climbed, the terrain changed.. Cultivated fields gave way to pasture land and wooded areas dominated by eucalypts. Gone as well was yesterday’s yellow flourish of flowers in the ditches.  The sage leaf rock rose was dominant and sometimes extended into the neighbouring fields. We saw our first cork oak. I remember learning that unlike other trees, the cork oak doesn’t die if its bark is stripped, as if the creator had made an exception in this case, so that we would have an abundance of corks for our bottled wine.

Occasionally a road crossed the railway line, and on one occasion we hesitated before continuing. The way was clearly marked, but a lady in a car stopped, anxious to help. It is a universal human pleasure to give directions to someone who seems to lost. It doesn’t cost you anything and you feel good afterwards. But she wanted to send us in the opposite direction.  We pointed to the signs and the arrows, but no, that was not the right way. Finally she gave up with a snug, and drove off thinking, “Those idiots, they’ll be sorry.”

We were walking on the Atlantic cycle trail so many cyclists passed us in both directions. No other pilgrims though. The friendliest beings we encountered were some donkeys who came to greet us as we passed. It was an easy walk with its slight gradients, but long for me.

Day 1. March 12, 2024. Huelva toTrigueros. 21 kilometres

 

Long day yesterday: Victoria-Toronto, Toronto-Madrid, express bus from airport to station, fast train to Seville, then slow train to Huelva. Had a little debate with the fellow on the plane about the best way to get from the airport to the station. He was taking the metro, but had to transfer to another terminal first.  We opted for the express bus.

To cut a very long story short, I have had another unsuccessful experience with an eSIM card. Even the lady in the Orange store in town could not put it right. Finally, when I said, “Bloody hell! Give me an old-fashioned, physical SIM card (translated by my amiable son-in-law, the linguist),” she set about to do so, only to tell me, “Sorry I can’t, you’re already in the system.” (That really was the short version of the story!) So I’m on EasyRoam with Virgin again, which is anything but easy at $16 a day.

It was a hard day for me, jet-lagged and lacking sleep, but relatively easy for the younguns. 

We left the cathedral, the official beginning of the camino, walked up and over a hill, along a ridge overlooking the delta, and on to an outer suburb where we drank a second coffee. 

And then, such joy, out into the countryside. Wheat on one side, barley on the other, and such a profusion of flowers in the ditch, a yellow spread of daisies, buttercups and wild mustard, interrupted by red poppies, nodding their heads together in vigorous conversation, or standing soberly on their own, as if embarrassed by such jocund company. But on one occasion, this joyous scene was interrupted by some massive clumps of cactus with vicious thorns, alien creatures frowning on this beauteous scene.

As always, little incidents interrupted the rhythm of the day. At the edge of town a cyclist riding by shouted, Buen Camino, which cheered us up no end. Later we came upon a fellow cutting the long grass with a scythe for his horse. Better than hay, he said. Towards the end of the day, I ventured off the bitumen onto the dirt beside the road, only to find it was but a thin crust covering a veritable quagmire of quicksand. My friends had to pull me out.

For much of the day we walked along a rather busy road, with little room at the side for pedestrians, and then a minor road stretching on for ever into the distance, so that by the end of the day I was walking, not with an iambic, but a spondaic, even  despondaic gait.

Camino de Sur. Huelva. 11 March, 2024

 

Huelva

Tomorrow morn, before the sun is high,

A daughter fair, two sons-in-law, and I

From Huelva in the sunny south of Spain

Will walk the old Camino once again.

The Cámino de Sur: you will agree

The name is apt, for from the southern sea

It wanders north to Zafra, on the Way —

The Via de la Plata, seven days

Beyond Seville, for hardy pilgrims bound

For Santiago, destined sacred ground.

A valiant band of pilgrims we, to wit:

Our capitán, a gentleman most fit,

And proven master of the Spanish tongue,

A necessary skill in lands far flung

From Albion’s shore, where folk will find it hard

To understand the language of the Bard

Of Avon. And next in line an athlete fine,

A runner of the marathon, a sign

Of greatness: she could run right off the top

The Cámino de Sur, without a stop.

Our third, a likely lad, a fellow fine,

Who jogs each day to work, come rain or shine, 

Or snow, for dwelleth he, alas, poor wight,

In Winnipeg, within the winter blight. 

And last, the laggard, I, with weary limb,

Endowed no more with vigour or with vim

Will plod along with slow iambic pace

Behind the Three, a smile upon my face.

Santiago to Porto

 

The weather gods had smiled on me during my walk. Not once did I have to don my rain gear. This morning, however, it was pouring.

I had booked a ticket to Porto Airport using the Trainline app, train to Vigo, and then bus to the airport.

A tip for anyone travelling out of Santiago by train. Had I arrived at what I thought was a comfortable 15 minutes early I would’ve missed it. It took me that long to get through the security queue. Strangely, though, I didn’t notice any security at the intermediate stops. I won’t make the obvious comment.

I chatted with a couple of Aussies from Sydney in the queue. It was good to speak Oz again. It was “Bugger this” and Bugger that” and “We would’ve been buggered if we hadn’t got here early.” They had walked from Porto as part of an organized tour. Would you do it again? I asked. No way. Too tired at the end of the day to bloody see anything.

Bilingualism is important in Galicia. On the screen in the railway coach it said:

Próxima estación Padron

Próxima estación Padron

I arrived at Vigo Guixar. And then I missed the bloody bus! I had assumed that it would be waiting at the train station, and it was, but not the one I arrived at. The bus station was next to Vigo Vialia station, across town. I had 20 minutes to make the connection, and saw the bus pulling away as I arrived. I should have looked more carefully at my ticket, but even so, had I run out of one station to get a taxi to the other, I would have been lucky to make it. That’s tip number 2. Check your ticket carefully.

But there was another bus at 5:30 pm, which I caught, and I’m now a guest at the Oporto Airport and Business Hotel. Very nice room and not too expensive. Tomorrow I will go into Porto.

Santiago de Compostela

I enjoy a leisurely breakfast at a cafe just outside the old town. Even at 9:30 a steady stream of pilgrims passes in front of me: young and old, singles, couples, groups, families, a group of schoolchildren, walking eagerly, pensively, determinedly.

I thought that on the Camino Portugués, women outnumbered men by about three to one. That was certainly the case in the albergues. Yesterday, as I drank my celebratory beer at a bar next to the hotel, and watched the incoming pilgrims from the Francés, I decided to do a little survey. In the course of my consumption of an cerveza grande, 24 women and 22 men passed by. But it may not have been an accurate count.

As I walk up to the cathedral I notice an inscription in the pavement written in many languages:

Europe was made on the pilgrim road to Santiago

Even today, perhaps the Camino counters the rising threat of right wing nationalism. I remember the words of Luca, a young Italian whom I met last year on the Camino Francés. Luca was effusive in his appreciation of the cross-cultural aspect of the Camino. “I meet so many people,” he said, “from different cultures, and they respect me, and I respect them.”

I know I am nearing the cathedral when I hear the piercing wail of the Galician pipes. I push through the tunnel to the square. Not many people yet but a familiar sight. A man throws his pack high in the air. Another positions his selfie stick carefully for a photo. A group of lads jump up and down and chant. Everywhere there are hugs, kisses, handshakes and even Biden fist bumps. And there is an exuberant muffled roar of pleasure and excitement.

I run into Doug and Nancy whom I’ve met a few times along the way since our first meeting at the Casa de Fernanda. Nice people from Oklahoma. I think I’ve inspired them to walk the Chemin du Puy. An Irishman asks me to take his photo with a very expensive camera. He takes ours in return. I had just finished telling Doug and Nancy that this was my last Camino, when the Irishman said how much he enjoyed the Camino Inglés. Hmm.