Author: Des Grundy

Delightful trek today that didn’t adhere to original plan.

Left on schedule at 0530, but succumbed to false marketing about 5km in, at Hospital, just past O’Logoso, when there was a sign that said “no further facilities for the next 15km”. I was walking for about 2km with a German girl I met outside the albergue who didn’t have her headlight. We both decided to load up on water, caffeine and carbs – that’s about all there seems to be in Spain.

It ended up being fortuitous. She re-connected with her other travelling Fraulines, and I waited for first light to give me some wonderful views and photos. Quite uplifting and unexpected. All-in-all, an unnecessary but delightful 45 minute diversion, though far too early in the “working” day.

The next stop was at Cee, about 9.8km further along, as opposed to the advertised 15km. Even early on a Sunday in Spain, this joint was open and teeming. I saw beers, sherry and a little, dark, viscous something being mixed with coffee and served before 0830. I think that beats the Scots and Irish for unfashionably-early, tacky, drinking habits. That takes some doing, right?

It was beer-o’clock when I hit Playa de Langosteira at around 1300. This is a 2km stretch of pristine, white beach that leads, seductively, into Finisterre. It’s a beautiful setting, but for obvious reasons, teeming with people. This was a stark reminder of the cross-over between pilgrim/albergue mentality and proper tourism. Back to reality.

I lingered a while, taking my boots and socks off for the first time in the day. It had become very, very hot and despite there being a mere 3km to destination, it was a better move to take a brief time-out than to plough on. Two beers. €7. Back to reality.

I had pre-booked my accommodation on strong advice. I chose a place out of the centre of town because it was very-highly rated and because I will be spending most of today and tomorrow at the shore, so I don’t need to wake up to the view, despite it being “romantic”. I can still hear the seagulls from the hotel and I can still hear the clatter of rope and chains against metal as the wind pounds it. All senses and synapses firing.

I think I lucked out. Very polite, spiky-haired, English-speaking, Lesbian front-of-house staff. Potential for breakfast there if I want it. Swimming pool. Big, clean room with strong, hot shower. Decor that doesn’t cause an allergic reaction. Very modest price point at €40/night for own (double) room/loo (though expensive by comparison with prior night).

I got my “Finisterrana” certificate from the Xunta (municipal) albergue which, at 1600, was “completo” (full). Why not? Another great memento of a unique trip (that I plan to repeat – Norte, Alps, Pyrenees – I am already scheming, and thinking about some post-Hawaii, early-November action)

I saw the Lithuanian girl from way back (when I first met Rasputin and Yasser), the one who’d been bitten by bedbugs and had some ugly, oozing welts as a consequence. Thankfully, she’s healed well. She’s been hanging out with some hippies and been camping and roughing it, as opposed to living albergue-style (which I though was ‘roughing it’). Yasser had mentioned that that was her preference. She certainly didn’t look any worse for it – nor did she smell. Lesson for others! I’m told that camping is actually illegal in Spain, but she and her alt-lifestyle friends seem to have got away with it by being clean, tidy, polite and not creating any fire-hazards.

So, here am I. Almost at the “end of the world” – until they discovered it wasn’t. The Faro lighthouse, 3.5km from here, defines it. Until it didn’t. Yasser left his boots there. “Hi-Tech”, I recall. I want to find them. He left his sunglasses somewhere else. Oh well, a casualty of the Camino.

That’s for tomorrow. In Tevas, not boots. I’m pushing the bounds…

Tonight, I need to decide on what I am going to burn tomorrow. It’s a bit of a tradition. Catharsis. Phoenix-ashes-rebirth-stuff.

Oh! Could FedEx please deliver me one Donald Trump…? I’ll pay for excess baggage. I also know to use diesel and not gasoline for safe/effective immolation, for reasons you really don’t need to be acquainted with…

Manaña.

Day 34 Photo Gallery

I got up deliberately late at 0730, but awake from well before 0700. No agenda for today.

That immediately felt peculiar, so I unpacked my rucksack, separated items for burning/throwing out, then repacked everything into their respective dry bags, ready for tomorrow’s departure. Talk about being anal…? Looking to kill more time, I also made the bed up and cleaned the room with the aim of leaving housekeeping as little to do as possible.

I had a lovely breakfast at the hotel. All home-made, but really nothing but carbs and coffee. The only thing I’ll not miss when I go home is the food. It’s all become very samey now.

A lazy morning spent wandering around Finisterre and then a quick 3.5km out to the Faro lighthouse. Incredible weather still.

I recorded “the end” here at Faro:

Slight difference versus official readings, but good enough for who it’s for…

I bumped into Irish Jenny who had arrived this morning via bus from Muxia. Time had not been on her side and she wasn’t up to consecutive 30-35km days. She cut her losses to get a bus and enjoy herself, rather than wear herself ragged. She heads for Santiago airport tomorrow.

Some chap started a fire to burn his gear, took a photo, then left the small, but active pyre. Silly boy. Big signs all over the place. Errr, I wouldn’t have dreamed of it myself… so I decided to put it out as a matter of public service… but not before I contributed my own stuff and saw it consigned to the ether. All good.

As expected, the buses and families and tourists are swarming in as the day goes on. The selfie-sticks are out. There’s a piper skirling with his bagpipes, but I can’t really “appreciate  it” because it’s obscured by the shrill local songs being piped from “Galicia Radio”. Noise + noise = wretched cacophony. Ugh. Time for me to be where they’re not.

Now what?

I’m looking into squeezing this trip in after Hawaii and before the winter weather closes in, but it may just be too ambitious:

Their blog says 6 days. I think I’d plan for 8 days. Anyway, we’ll see… work to do yet.

Without the routine of the last 5 weeks, I feel somewhere between listless and restless, not exactly sure of what to do with my time, and candidly, with little here to occupy it. Finisterre is much more about the journey than the destination. It’s a sleepy little fishing town, sadly in slow decline. There are a lot of restaurants all serving the same food, the same beer and at the same inflated prices. In winter, it must be desolate.

So, now back to Finisterre for some of the same food and same beer/wine.

After a brisk downhill hike, I meandered around town, settling for lunch at Meson Arco de Vella, which was positively billed for ‘Carmen’s home cooking’. The food was decent but expensive, with starter and main course prices not being far off London gastro-pub prices.

The fishing boats came back in at around 1600 with their catch. These boats are pretty small, operated by what seems like a 4-5 man crew. The catch is not winched off in large containers, rather it’s quickly man-handled directly into the back of a transit van. These vessels clearly operate inshore and the scale of the business is quite small: I only counted 6-8 boats returning.

I saw Terry and Tina, the Irish couple I spent some time with on Day 32. They were getting ready to take the bus back to Santiago and leave for Dublin tomorrow. Terry’s back at work on Wednesday. Back to reality.

I also saw the big, happy Italian bunch minus Davide. It’s been about a week since I last caught sight of them. They arrived today and are berthed at the Xunta Albergue. They’re moving onto Muxia tomorrow, but by bus because of time. This afternoon they’re off to the beach, and then to the lighthouse for sunset. Such romantics…

Now, back to the Prado da Viña and to prepare for tomorrow, the last day of hiking – 28.1 linear kilometers with another 2.7km for terrain adjustments.

Given how little packing I have, I might now make some progress on my Grace Jones e-book. I was able to struggle about 20 pages into it, about 2 weeks ago. I got stuck because it was excessively self-indulgent and ego-centric, unlike Nile Rodgers’ book that actually told an interesting story. I’ll take another run at it over the next 72 hours.

Unless you hear from me before then, manaña…

Day 35 Photo Gallery

I REALLY hope this place is better than first impressions suggest, otherwise I am marooned here for a couple of days. Everyone says it is a delight, but I have yet to see ANY evidence confirming those assertions.

Let’s start by being positive.

The hike from Finisterre to Muxia is an adventure, and arguably the best leg of the trip. With a couple of extensions and alternative routes, it was nearer 35km. It is less-well sign-posted, there are far-fewer humans, the countryside alternates between woodland and unspoiled beach, and the weather was just divine at 30-32c with clear blue skies, but blowing a consistent breeze to make the journey easy and bearable, even at the height of the day. I left at 0800 and arrived at 1535, after multiple stops. Today was a dawdle. Deliberately.

This, however, was a weird one. I was (genuinely) listening to Texas (Southside, 1989, Prayer for You), when I happened upon this trash-can:

Who, in the middle of back-of-beyond Galicia, puts a sticker like this on a municipal garbage can? Anyway, it seemed apropos, hence the picture.

My hotel in Muxia is super (Habitat Cm Muxia, Calle Real, 40). Here’s the view of the harbour from the bathroom:

Great A/C: two terraces with double doors. Lots of storage space that I don’t need. Two single beds, lots of plug-points, a well-thought-out layout and super-clean and very friendly; actually couldn’t do enough to make you feel at home. I’ll comment on breakfast tomorrow (from 0800).

Dinner was a different matter, and here I slip into DisparagingDes.

The first four eateries I tried would serve booze, but no food until 2000-2030. It was 1830. This is a tourist town. Accommodate tourists, don’t adhere to local habit. Tourists, I no longer use the term Pilgrim, given the location and demography, want to eat throughout the day because… they arrive throughout the day. Bad sign for an enduring business model. On my fifth try, I hit pay-dirt. A snotty Spaniard with a nose-piercing, big expander-earrings, a semi-Mohawk and an Irish tee-shirt announced “ower keetchen ees olwez opeen”.

You got me, hook line and stinker (no pun).

I ordered chipirones for a starter and entrecôte as a main.

Now, we in the civilised world know that the starter precedes the main course, right? Apparently not in this restaurant.

The server appeared with both dishes in hand and plonked them down on the table with an air of triumph. I tried to argue some sequencing to the timing, but it was lost on him.

“Zee keetchen is so kweek” he said proudly…

“I don’t give a fuck. One dish gets cold as I eat the other, and I DON’T want to wolf these down. Do you understand the difference between starter and main course, you beardy, hippy-dippy, shit-heel?”… say I grimacing, barely able to conceal my derision and wondering how I can tear out that goofy ear-ring or severe his windpipe without others noticing.

Back to reality…

“Zee keetchen is so kweek” he purred meekly as he tried to raise a smile (or snigger, not sure…).

If I asked him to take it back, they’d just warm it, it would be rubbery AND they would have spat or spunked on it, so I cut my losses. Impromptu ‘surf and turf’. And this is why I remain dubious that Spain has a valid place in the First World. I’ve had better service in Argentina and Chile, and at lower cost. Consider that. Scary.

I’m off to try and find my hotel. There are a lot of backstreets in this podunk town and apparently it’s easy to get lost. Restaurants won’t open for another hour or so, so I assume I’ll not get decent sleep because this is a small town, they eat late… and entertainment thereafter… boozing and fornication with close relatives is a past-time – as I have noted several times before.

This may be a very long two days… and I’ll let you know.

Manaña.

Day 36 Photo Gallery

Yesterday I opened with… “I REALLY hope this place is better than first impressions suggest, otherwise I am marooned here for a couple of days. Everyone says it is a delight, but I have yet to see ANY evidence confirming those assertions.”

Alas, I report no progress other than the breakfast here was adequate and the staff remain delightful. I wonder if someone staying more than 24 hours is an anomaly or a sign of mental-retardation and they’re treating me kindly, as “different”.

You know things are bad when you go to the Tourist Information Office to ask what there is to do – and they proudly direct you to look at the wall murals in the harbour. Even Weldon’s sparting (“spray paint art”) would be more captivating, and itself only for a partial nano-second. Sorry Weldon; discerning audience.

I had lunch at the same place as yesterday, despite criticism. Same fayre – surf and turf, except surf then turf, with appropriate sequencing and no cajoling on my part. Maybe there is hope.

I met an Northern Irish couple who live in Murcia. They’ve come for the month of August to escape the humidity and 40ºC temperatures, as well as the Madrid people who come to infest the area and their summer-homes during the month. They’re bummed about Brexit (oops) but remain hopeful a deal will be struck. At the heart of their worry is reciprocal healthcare arrangements. They are both retired. Separately, they noted that the Galician coast is at the heart of the inbound drug trade as it’s vast, government resources are limited and it’s very difficult to police as a consequence. You don’t read that in the books or on the inter-webs, do you…?

So, I’m stuck here until Friday morning, and it is supposed to rain here tomorrow too. Super…

I ‘toured’ most of the town today, saving the high point (literally and geographically, for tomorrow, before I knew it was going to rain.) The plan is to get the early bus to Santiago on Friday at 0645, drop the pack off and see as much as as I can before heading to the airport for my flight to Barcelona and overnight there at a place still to be determined. I have a booking but have not heard back about a midnight check-in, which may be a problem, so tomorrow we action Plan B. I may even get a tattoo if boredom gets to me. It’s that bad.

Down-time is not completely wasted time, however.

I soaked clothes in the wash-basin with de-smelling stuff that I bought in the store. I rinsed in the shower. Quite cathartic. Try it.

I bought some cheap Spanish cologne so I can differentiate myself on the bus and the airplane.

I read the FT for the first time in a long time. Great quotation cited from Paul Tudor Jones, which indicates the way of the future: “No man is better than a machine, and no machine is better than a man with a machine.”

I net-surfed. I was recently asked which three living people I would invite to dinner if I could. I answered Nile Rodgers, George Bush Jr and Billy Connolly.  Here’s Billy explaining some of the linguistic nuances between Britain and America:

I haven’t yet got around to Grace Jones. Must be a sub-conscious block working its way out, a bit like constipation.

The wind is coming up and weather’s closing in, it seems. The bar is open. My clothes are not yet dry. My fate is clear.

Manaña.

Day 37 Photo Gallery