Day 28 – Portomarín to San Xulián

I’m not going to bang on about the Spanish and Italian tourists any more. We’ll just take it as a working assumption that each day forth, it will be worse, there will be more scum, their behaviour will be increasingly inappropriate and the litter will be getting worse – which it is, BTW. Imagine the nastiest litter you can, and I assure I have seen it over the last 50km. For reference, I am now less than 75km from Santiago.

I did, however, have a minor epiphany this morning. Twice over the last seven years, Doris and I had some furniture made by a London company with manufacturing facilities in Italy. Our orders both happened to be placed in July but could only be fulfilled in October… because the factory was shut for August. Love nor money was going to change that timing, and now I know why, and where all the “artisans” were during those months…

Today was a relatively easy 28km stretch that took me through 10 small villages and the larger town of Palas de Rei. Departure 0545, about 90 mins in breaks, and arrival at just before 1300.  The day was fog, until 0800, and overcast thereafter. It’s 1500 and the sun is beginning to gingerly break out.

I berthed 3.6km further west of Palas de Rei, in the hamlet (my description, as I know of no term for anything smaller) of San Xulián. I chose this little slice of nowhere because (i) I wanted to be where the tourists were not, and they usually berth in the larger conurbations and (ii) the picture on the interwebs looked delightfully quaint. I had plan B, C and D in case they were full/pre-booked, but I suspected they wouldn’t be. I wasn’t wrong. No tourists (to begin with) and delightful.

At 1300, I was the first customer. At 1425, two more came in. This albergue has only 16 beds, split a into three rooms with 6, 6 and 4. I’m in a 6. The other visitors have been kindly redistributed elsewhere. By 1700, there were another six. All faux.

Today, I want you to be with me in this albergue, O Abrigadoiro, in the non-descript hamlet of San Xulián, where the cows are walked through the street by the farmer, six times daily.

I saw a traffic jam earlier (not making this up – was putting my washing out to dry and didn’t have camera to capture the ‘mayhem’), comprised of a dozen, slow-moving, somewhat irascible cows with large horns, a vulnerable Seat sub-compact and a very large tractor driven by an impatient redneck who was gesticulating animatedly. I have no clue what his hurry was, but it didn’t seem relevant. The cows prevailed, naturally.

I was greeted by Minerva, the owners’ daughter. She is a teacher and a classical guitarist,  working here for the Summer. This is her last week. She’s recuperating from a wrist injury sustained in a fall that has impeded her playing over the last two years. Serious, given her vocation. She can now play 20 minutes a day before it becomes too painful. She was just playing as I peck at the keyboards. Just amazing. What a gift.

With 17 years in business, she tells me this is one of the oldest albergues in Galicia. This particular albergue is a farmhouse and “barn” that the family converted. Kitchen and bar used to be living quarters, communal dining room used to house the cows and the sleeping and ablutions areas used to be for the hens and chickens (how apropos). There is a separate building that went through a similar transformation where the other ten beds are located.

Taxes here are apparently high and are a function of the number of beds that they have (if I understood Minerva correctly) – and that is an annualized obligation for a seasonal business that is only operational 6-7 months of the year. Another hurdle.

They need a nightly occupancy of ten to break-even.  They also make money from the bar and from food service.  They have a communal dinner at 1930, which is late for me, but I’m partaking nonetheless, for obvious reasons.

 

Board is €12.00 a night and dinner is €10.50. A large glass of local white wine is €1.00. The loos have just been redone as have the dormitories. It’s all scrupulously clean. The shower was great – quickly hot and decent pressure (and I didn’t need to open the door to soap my ass and legs this time!).

I spoke to Minerva’s husband, Rado, briefly. I actually asked if he was her brother and was quickly and courteously corrected. Oops. Who knew? He lamented the increase in the tourist trade and the lack of appreciation of history – this, I assure you, was unprompted on my part. He just wanted to express and I was his willing vessel…

Rado said this was the first albergue in Galicia, 17 years ago when the concept was foreign, and everything else is now a poor imitation. I tend to agree. I wish that factoid were in the guidebooks as it would be a hook, but maybe they don’t. They seem to be more than content with doing a meaningful business with a specific, limited clientele, as opposed to volume at all costs. A day or two ago, Esther and Yasser both said that a number of these businesses are run to return something to the community: people work them at around break-even for the season, then work elsewhere for the rest of the year to make the books balance. Hmmmm…

Speaking of Yasser and Esther and Rasputin, I saw them a couple of times along the way today. They were planning as I was passing Ventas de Laron. Then, they were passing as I was taking espresso at Airexe (and inspecting the female loo facilities).

I didn’t interrupt or reach out as they are on a tight timeline, and I know that I can become a distraction. When they read this, they will understand…

There’s not a lot to do here except write the blog, relax and think about how to incite bovine aggression towards motor vehicles. See this for my inspiration. I await the next procession.

I’m off for a siesta… except that I now find myself berthing with two sturdy, Italian “ladies” who’ve been on the go since Fonfria, about three days prior. I’m still trying to determine who’s ‘he’ and who’s ‘she’. I have a very sensitive Gaydar (I can almost detect by sense of smell – the CIA could use this home-grown technology AND it wouldn’t render diplomats in Cuba, deaf!!) but despite one with a roll of blubber that makes my own look svelte, and a spiked haircut, my role-play recognition/top-bottom/pitcher-catcher circuitry could do with an extensive upgrade.

I promise that I go into this with an open mind. I really do. Really!

The Gorgons of Lesbos have decamped to the far end of the room, near to the (tightly-closed) window. I am at the near end, lower bunk by the door (deliberate – I may get disturbed by movement but I have dominion over ventilation). But… but the room now has a strange fugue to it… Not body odor, just a heavy, unfresh, lingering, staleness. I can adapt. I can breathe through my mouth. You have to learn to do that when you have Boxers…

More tomorrow…

So, later, out will come Ms Lavender EO Secret Weapon.

Day 28 Photo Gallery