Author: Des Grundy

I think today’s comments may come across rather negatively but I am actually still having a great time.

As I write, a guy (I deliberately avoided ‘gentlemen’) is peeing into the bushes by the bus stop, just giving it the last shake for luck – in full view of public. He just had a beer in my gaff. Could he not have used the indoor facilities? Guess what he was wearing? Yup – some tribal football colours that I am clueless about. I expect no better from the grittier side of the soccer fraternity in Europe. Yes, I am a snob. Sue me!!

Saturday night was noisy, the noisiest yet. I was awake from 0330 but rose at 0500. Same observation as before: small towns with high youth unemployment leave little for the young to do at weekends except get drunk and fornicate with close relatives. The latter, generally following the former, as the beer goggles are found and donned.

I left at about 0545, and as I got into the elevator (sounds grand but this crib was a badly converted office space in a non-descript block so needed an elevator), I noticed something amiss in the mirror. The synapses don’t fire as quickly in the early hours but by the time I got downstairs, it clicked. My shorts were inside out and the mesh undergarments were making the unusual ruckles that caught my eye. Never done that before, and I was sober. While I was temped to do a quickie and drop them there and then, I opted for a quick visit back upstairs to straighten out the attire and move on.

The route of of town was anything but clear but I got on track and made decent time. There were 20 or 30 people with the same idea at that early hour, most of whom ended up following me because I had the head torch. Some were families with young kids. Seems pretty irresponsible to me, but… I’m not qualified to comment as I am not a parent. But that won’t stop me. It’s downright stupid, especially with unknown, rough terrain and seemingly no map.

It was foggy and the humidity quite close so I opted for a quick de-layer near the railroad tracks. There happened to be two way-markers, side-by-side. I inadvertently obscured the left marker with my pack, and the following hoards took the path indicated by the right. Alas this was the longer path. Oops! I only realised after the fact as I took the left path, but with a growing sense of resentment towards these pikers, I felt a modicum of (inappropriate) satisfaction. Mea culpa. Wasn’t deliberate… ’honest, Guv’

This photo shows the arrival into Portomarin, and I think captures the changing zeitgeist of the Camino.

Something that began ~600 hard kilometres ago, with roots in a cause/pilgrimage/mission, something with a sense of deeper and valuable purpose has metastasised into blatant, shabby, shallow commercialism. It now feels like a walking-Butlins. Very low-rent. No thought about or respect for the foundations or history of what they’re doing.

I’m no religious history-buff. I’m fundamentally anti-Catholic (abhor the control aspect). I’m not some funky, new-age Jesus-freak doing this for a Speedpass to personal redemption to get “my own personal Jesus” (thank you Johnny Cash). I do take some shortcuts (I don’t cook for myself and I do pay up for accommodation beyond the basic, albergue style to leave the less expensive stock available to others on a more constrained budget), but I get what it’s about and I do try to respect it – and, much to my surprise, that has been informative, eye-opening and uplifting for me. These pikers (parents and issue alike, don’t). They’ll come back with sore legs, sunburn and some vague recollection of lots of greenery. Period.

The kids are screaming/playing up while the parents are (willingly) oblivious – no awareness or respect for others. Tuned out. Some are checking FB as they walk or trying to Skype real time (4G is pervasive, so it’s very plausible). Some carry loudspeakers and blast out the rap-shit of the day. You can’t blame the kids; it’s the parents for allowing it in the first place. Fatties are using hiking poles, but instead of using them to bear weight and spread the load to their arms, they peck and tip-tap with them trying to look the part and shuffle and wobble along slowly and inefficiently. I’ve seen blancmange move with more grace and pace. All the gear, and no idea…

There’s a group of 5-6 gormless Italians in matching dayglo yellow tops and printed tee-shirts. Woohoo! Very kitsch. I wanted to ask about matching terry-towelling bathrobes but… Meandering mindlessly all over the place, they block passage to quicker traffic: if you might judge a nation’s driving competence by its ambulatory discipline, this lot have no hope. They’re Italian. QED. I christened them the “Headless Chickens”, and that’s probably too kind a compliment.

Headless chicken is also the best way to describe the wait staff here at “Pons Minea” (does that translate to “Pointless”?). Less than fucking useless. As useful as an ashtray on a motorbike, tits on a bull, a hand-knitted condom, forward gears in an Iraqi tank, a DustBuster on the moon, a chocolate teapot, a condom machine in the Vatican, and so forth. Fifteen year olds, young, dumb and full of cum, inexperienced and over-worked, and completely incapable of carrying out multiple tasks simultaneously (like the rest of Spain, it seems to me). They wouldn’t survive at Starbucks (which probably partially explains its local absence…). Again, ultimately whose fault? Employer or employee?

My return to sanity and saving grace was John, Luke and Esther, AKA, Rasputin, Yasser/Barney and Angel. I saw them ascending the slope as my annoyance was formenting, and managed to attract their attention. A quick beer turned into … a longer beer. A blessing and a curse, as Yasser told me: nice to chat, longer to walk. They plan to hit Santiago a day before me, on Wednesday, and then bus it over to Finisterre the next day for a quick mosey and return. The tentative plan is a collective dinner on Thursday as they all leave at 0500 on Friday. I’ve got a room booked that night and they don’t, so may be a squeeze. I decamp to Finisterre on Friday, all being well.

Speaking to others who are in the same place on the Camino, the (growing) collective resentment stems from a feeling of having informally/karmically earned something, and being (somewhat) respectful of history. This faux lot are using the Camino as a cheap vacation, and in the process, devaluing it.  Hold that thought: use it as a cheap vacation. Fine. I get that. Just try to respect others on the trail and some of the values. I’m not saying wrap it in linens and bless with sacred water, but try not to reduce it to Butlins on the hoof…

By way of reinforcement, here is a picture of the luggage room at my albergue.

 

Do those look like backpacks to you?

 

 

 

 

 

By contrast (not that I am a paragon of principle and propriety), my laundry and bed linens, good for the next 3+ days. I am wearing the other set. No peeky…

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, and for the record and for those more sensitive, defensive readers (you know who you are Rikky…), I’m not arbitrarily picking on Italians and Spanish for this behaviour or criticism. I’m not xenophobic. It’s just no coincidence that the consistently-observed perpetrators seemingly speak exclusively in those two tongues – and all wear Quechua gear. Just sayin’…

A couple of the thoughts on evidence, facts, cause and effect….

“The data shall set you free” – Alan Mullaly. (responsible for the Boeing 777 program and then went onto turn Ford around as CEO).

 

“Statistics are like bikinis. What they reveal is suggestive, but what they conceal is vital” – Aaron Levenstein.

“When the facts change, I change my mind. What do you do, sir?” – J M Keynes (attrib).

If the “facts change”, due, say, to an uncannily high incidence of Warsaw, Amsterdam, Essex, Brooklyn, Parisian or Glaswegian accents, I’ll review and amend. Until then, “res ipsa loquitur” and I remain quite happy with my interim conclusions. Don’t like it? Don’t read it.

 

I’ve decamped to the other end of town to a delightful café called Pazo de Berbetoros, away from the throngs. I wandered around and found this oasis at the end of town. It’s not in any books that I could see. Looks more up-market than most. Note to self: stay here next time.  Note to Robin Garlic: worth exploring.

I’m having a local vino blanco instead of the “industrial” version. It’s light with some subtle lime and flinty notes and goes down very easily. A surprise. The host is probably my age, well-dressed, carries himself with presence and confidence and is attentive without being intrusive… and here I am, dressed in my Tevas, running shorts/matching wife-beater, yet still treated with consummate courtesy. Maybe the iPad gave something away…

My mood is moderating. Perhaps being out of the relentless sun, and not seeing the stream of faux pilgrims decamping like Somali refugees is good for the headspace.

Therein endeth the Sunday rant.

Sundays are a good day for a rant.

I remember the Reverend Charles B. Eadie (RIP) at the Church of the Holy Rude  giving great/incomprehensible fire and brimstone sermons on a Sunday at 1100. Alas, he was already three sheets to the wind by the time it “show time”. I think it only enhanced his delivery though. RIP Chucky.

There was always something deliciously contradictory in “Holy” and “Rude” in the context of a church, and having been baptised there. Probably accounts for a lot of my errant behaviour.  Go figure…

Now that all is said and done, I need buy two items. A shotgun and a Taser…and a lot of ammunition. Suggestions, anyone…?

Kaboom!

Stop press (but not the arms race). It’s 1845, and as I was walking back to take care of my laundry) ’cos I’m not faux and don’t have ‘people’ to do that for me), I heard… the wail of bagpipes. Well, in truth, castrated, tubally-ligated bagpipes, to remain politically correct. It dawned on me. I have an album by a Spanish bagpipe player, Hevia (Tierra de Nadie, 1999).  This is (electronic) Galician bagpipe muzak. It’s Sunday and they’re out doing their castrated, traditional, bagpipe thing here. Wonderful. Here are some photos, but note that the under-arm scrotum is nothing like the Scots’…

Day 27 Photo Gallery

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

Before I get to today, I should finish yesterday…

We had a delightful communal dinner where everyone spoke Spanish, but me. No problem. Means you don’t need to talk to strangers. A smile at the same time everyone laughs and a few raised eyebrows here and there (when I actually recognized a word) can give the impression of vague comprehension. Bullshit baffles brains.

What I learned at dinner is that traditional Paella is a Valencia dish. Valencian Paella ONLY contains chicken or rabbit. And they take their dish very seriously indeed; a matter of regional honour that has been debased by inferior alternatives.

“Joo heave not taysteed pie-yay-jah onteel joo been to Valenthia”.

To say they were disparaging about anything with seafood would be an understatement. I nodded in vigorous, indifferent agreement. Whatever…

Back to today.

I left the “Batcave” in the dark sometime after 0600. I say Batcave because O Abrigadoiro had one window and a ventilation vent in the dormitory. The window was no more that 60cm x 30cm. All other lighting was via skylight. Intimate feel. Superb.

No fog today.

Much the same as yesterday, there is a lot of woodlands and a lot of Eucalyptus trees in this area. In the early hours, their scent is intensified by the stillness of the morning air, and imparts a spa-like cleanliness it. You can almost feel it in your eyes.

My journey through 8 small towns was unremarkable, although the day overall has a very strange vibe to it. Today is Tuesday, but it feels like a Sunday in terms of energy and overall activity. Very strange.

I made good time in the dark and rested up in Melide, where the Camino Frances joins with Camino Primitivo coming from the north. Nothing was open by 0830 and there were an unusually high number of vacant, bleary-eyed, 18-25 year olds roaming the streets in last night’s clubbing-attire. Some still carrying glasses of beer. Weird, on a Tuesday… I found breakfast eventually, but it took an extensive 15 minute recce of the area to locate a small, lone panaderia staffed by a single, surly matron sporting a shock of dark, armpit hair that was looking to infiltrate her outer garments.

One matron.

Three customers (me the third).

Simple orders.

Again, I endured the profound inability of a Spanish worker to multi-task e.g. put the coffee on so it can do its automatic thing while the orange juice machine does its automatic thing while the toaster does its automatic thing. I remain aghast. It took me 15 minutes to get a coffee – and I am NOT exaggerating for effect. All the while, in that time, she made a couple of coffees (including a steamed milk!), one orange juice and two servings of toast (complicated by butter and jam accompaniment). I counted. In London or NYC, you’d have had an aneurism if you suffered this quality of slow, indifferent, oblivious customer-disservice. She was, seemingly, the only game in town, and I was, of course, obsequiously humble and patient… And that is why I am delighting in corn-holing her now, in my mother tongue, in absentia!

I decided to berth in Arzua because tomorrow, it gives me a nice easy stretch in to San Paio, my penultimate stop before Santiago. Arzua has that same Sunday feeling as Melide, minus the youth-drunks. It just feels dead. Does no one work here? Annoyingly, there’s only tourist food though I found a local pulperia, O’Conxuro, on a side-street and had some quite delicious octopus – once again. I’ll need to get my bloods done when I get back, though. With the amount of seafood and carbs I’ve consumed, I’m growing seriously concerned about mercury poisoning and artery-hardening – and I still don’t have a will.

This town, sadly, is boring. I targeted Albergue da Fonte for my overnight because the photo made it look old and inviting, it has only 20 beds and is on the outward side of the Camino. Alas, it’s a bit disappointing, especially compared to yesterday’s find. Oh well. It’s clean, I was able to shower lazily, do my laundry and the doors shut at 2000, a bonus. I’m in a room of six: two Italians and one Japanese lady, so far. The Italians are middle-aged and quite a sweet (straight) couple. They started in Léon. They are carrying their own packs. They do their own laundry (I say as witness). They are determined to stay in un-booked, authentic pilgrim accommodation. They were suitably complimentary when I told them I started in St Jean Pied de Port. They get a silver star and their lives will be spared come the Revolution…

I think I have covered about 725km+/- so far. There’s another 50km to Santiago, then about 90km to Finisterre. Thereafter another 25-30km to Muxia. Thereafter….bus to the airport and Grasse via Barcelona then Nice. Santiago Thursday. Finisterre Sunday. Muxia next Tuesday. Nice next Saturday. All being well.

That’s it.  It’s 1500 and the weather is turning a tad chilly so I’m adding a shirt (don’t recall when I last did that). I’m off to find an ATM and stock up on this funny-money that they use here. It currently still has some value, but I’m not sure for how long…

Oh… It’s now 1735 and I just found out that today is a Bank Holiday – the Feast of the Assumption of Mary. Explains the lack of anything much happening anywhere today.

Day 29 Photo Gallery

It was zig-zagging though woodlands and then more woodlands with multiple, unremarkable villages along the way. I don’t have a lot to say about today, so it’s going to be mercifully brief for you.

I did about 30km to berth in Lavacolla which is really little more than a truck stop, just off the Camino. I think the “lav” part of the name is a clue to the character of the place. I missed that… It’s about 10km from Santiago, meaning less than 2 hours walking tomorrow to destination… meaning a bit of a lie in…

I’m in the Hostel San Paio at €38 for the night. On strong advice, I booked a day ahead on booking.com. When I arrived, I offered my passport which they legally should note, but the old woman at the front of house wasn’t interested. I tried twice. Fuck off, I’ve got your money. The crone must have been a “Gertrude” or a “Gretchen” because she oozed the impatience of an angry scorpion trapped in a human body. This gaff is on the most primitive side of basic. The shower is tiny and designed to spew water across the entire loo floor. However, I don’t need to open the door to soap legs or ass… because the ill-fitting shower curtain already accommodates such limb movements… which is why water spews everywhere.  Design flaw or accommodating those of us with “bigger bones”? That said, it seems clean, the power-sockets work, the towels are almost three grades up from sandpaper and the water was hot.

I plan to attend the Pilgrim Mass at noon in Santiago, not because I have a pressing inner need, but rather, it’s part of the whole “Camino thing” – and if I don’t, I’ll get the endless questions about why not, so it’s just easier this way. To attend, I need to obtain a Compostella. To obtain a Compostella, I need to queue up somewhere, present my Credencial to be validated. Then, I’m in the “club”, off to the bells and smells, the ringing and the singing and of course… the priests and their catamites.

I just had what looks like a huge and unhealthy lunch comprising a double burger and salad at Bar de Comidas, Botana.

Botana doesn’t do “terrace” service (i.e. out to the car park), so after I placed my order with a very friendly hostess and her chubby five year old in tow, I was eventually summoned via muffled Tannoy (yes, no lie, big trumpet thing) when slop was up:

“Numero dos. Numero dos.”

Truth is, the patties were more like pressed sausage, there was one egg, two thin rashers of bacon and the lettuce was uber-super-sized in both salad and burger, making both look obscenely large. They really weren’t. This was a good example of food waste created at point of preparation (versus point of consumption at Albergue Irago) – unless lettuce has now become the staple of hungry truckers across Spain…

Nothing more to add this end. Tomorrow will be interesting. Need to do a bit of homework now…

Day 30 Photo Gallery