Author: Des Grundy

How is it that on a Sunday in a large City in Spain, I can get a Burger King from noon until half past midnight, but nowhere is open to sell me a set of headphones or a Pharmacist to sell me foot balm or Vaseline? I struggle between thinking that limited Sunday trading is extremely civilised on the one hand, and utterly impractical and harmful to the economy on the other, especially in a city teeming with tourists with cashola to spend. Anyway, still no new headphones.

There are very few ways to spin “bland, the same and utterly uninteresting”, so this one will be short.

Just over 32km today, of placing one foot after the other, still paralleling the road. I walked alone the entire way. Again. No wonder some of the less purist guidebooks say you might want to take a bus if you’re “time-constrained”. Polite-speak for “It’s mind-numbingly boring. Give it a miss. Take the bus. Maybe don’t tell anyone.” It is tempting, but I wasn’t tempted. My limited grasp of Spanish renders it easier to walk the damn thing than to try and arrange for a taxi over the phone.

Wunderground’s weather app tells me that the temperature is only 27ºC, and I admit that it feels a little nippy, requiring more than the Nike wife-beater I’ve been wearing. Fleece may be called for.

I bumped into Nancy again. She got here about 1430. She’s staying in what appears to be a much more elegant albergue, the Albergue San Miguel, BUT… she doesn’t have a pool or the massage I have scheduled at 1845, albeit for only 45 minutes. Yin and Yang.

I’m off to soak my legs in the baby pool…

…which became an inadvertently-surreal experience in Spanish Apartheid. I bought a beer to use the pool. I didn’t want a beer, I merely thought it was a supportive, economic gesture. I finished my beer and went to walk across the grass to the pool (30 feet away) and a local with the dress-sense and finger-nail cleanliness of a sanitation-worker, whom I’d noted had been eating like a savage, stopped me. He was polite, if unclean.

Long story short, you can only walk across to the pool via the grass directly from the bar if you are a resident (owner-occupier vs CHAV would be a lost semantic). Well, of course! Obvious! Otherwise, you need to go in via the other entrance. Rather strange as the bar is part of the albergue where I’m berthing. The same albergue that advertises free access to the pool, presumably with your room key as proof of residence. Presumably NOT!

You need to go back to the bar to get an official, ayuntamiento-issued temporary piscina-pass to get entry. I was somewhere between amused, bemused and livid. I let it pass. Pilgrims do that because we are loving, forgiving, serene beings…

Before I entered the pool I explained to the attendant that all I wanted to do was stick my feet and lower legs in. Cool them after my hike. No full shower. No swim. No pee-pee in pool. I would shower them first, and was that all right? I needed to get a grip on these dogmatic local customs as I was, after-all, the kaffir.

He nodded.

Good, good. Progress.

I also explained, smiling and in my best English, that as this was a vanishing edge pool, it was highly probable that the water would meet with my unshowered testicles, and would that also be alright ?

He nodded.

I am dipping as I write.

What a palaver, but perhaps evidence of some of the inefficiency still embedded within the red tape and the system, and not confined to Spain.

I’m by-passing the next big town of Astorga, and heading straight for Rabanal del Camino. I was going to stay at an Albergue there run by the UK-based, Cofraternity of St James, the Gaucelmo, but Maurice thinks he may have picked up bed-bugs there. Personal hygiene/safety trumps sovereign allegiance. There’s a Benedictine Monastery that might be a wheeze, if they’re indeed open and accept ‘infidels’ such as myself. I’ll do some research on the ‘inter-webs’…

So, tomorrow will be nearer 36km as I again truncate three days into two. That’s a long way for these short, old legs. Early to bed. Sadly, I expect it will be much of the same as today.

I’m told it improves.

You’ll be the next to know…

Day 21 Photo Gallery

I dug up this fascinating quotation from Nikola Telsa, genius, polymath, eugenics-proponent, close friend of Mark Twain and Stanford White, originator of 300+ patents and after whom Elon Musk’s electric car is named:

“To me, the universe is simply a great machine which never came into being and never will end” and “what we call ‘soul’ or ‘spirit,’ is nothing more than the sum of the functioning of the body. When this functioning ceases, the ‘soul’ or the ‘spirit’ ceases likewise”.

Profound for a man who never graduated university.

Anyway, I digress.

We’re all waddling. I meant to say this before. Long ago. It’s sort of a rite of passage. Waddling.

After a hike, everyone waddles as if they’ve been mercilessly fisted by Freddie Mercury, with a warm-down and stretch from Gary Glitter. Feet are sore. Heels are very sensitive. Legs don’t quite work. Hip flexors and joints ache. Balance is off a bit. Doesn’t matter your age. It’s reflected in the awkward, halting momentum of one’s gait and the gentle, slow, deliberate placement of the feet. Everyone walks as if they’ve had a good fisting that they’ve not particularly enjoyed (err, ARE you actually supposed to enjoy it..?).

The waitstaff at the Albergue found this all tremendously entertaining. They were laughing at me (to my face, pointing) and asked me to remove my sunglasses so they could really see the look on my face as I padded tentatively around their small courtyard. They then laughed at my racing-stripes. Ha. Ha. So glad I can be the source of your amusement. Now why not make some decent food instead of this carb-loaded slop and pay for the Comedy Channel if you want something to laugh at!  

The bar staff then asked me to help hang and secure the banners for “Camino Celta” on 9 de Agosto (tomorrow), just to make the place look more festive and colorful. I was sitting in a corner, so there were multiple workstreams. Apparently, it was quite alright to stand barefoot on the tables that they don’t seem to clean but people will certainly eat off. Enjoy the residual, blister-pustulate and the flakes from my athlete’s foot, you low-rollers…

Back to business. This is about the Camino after all…

About 35km today, split into 15km, 9km and 11km segments and two 45+ minute stops along the way. Departure 0500. Arrival 1345. Not bad going as there were significant changes in elevation.

0500 is an excessively early start but there was a full moon, as I’ve tried to capture in some of the following photos.

Good as it is, the iPhone 7 doesn’t see or capture what they eye does.

I tried to walk as much as I could without Mr Petzl. It’s remarkable how light it is with a full moon. The natural light is quite lovely, and it does feel as if someone is watching over you. There’s supposed to be a meteor shower on the 13th. Those in the know suggest being underway by 0400. We’ll see. 0500 was plenty early.

“Those in the know” is Alex, in the singular, my dorm mate from yesterday. He’s 33, from Canada, a social worker employed as a Special Ed teacher in Toronto. Looks like Dave Grohl. Very engaging and likes basketball. He’s hiking with a French chap whose name I didn’t get. We had 3 people in a 4 bed dormitory last night. The dorm had a single shower and bathroom, but just fine for the numbers. No one snored. Great night’s sleep. No ear plugs (for me at least). I sidled off while they were still out cold. I had pre-planned my exit so I don’t think I disturbed them. Hoping to see them again here as I think this was also their intended destination. That way, I’ll find out if I snored…

Tonight, I’m in a large dormitory (20+) that only has two loos and two showers. I chose this place based on reviews and the fact that it is NOT one of the berths that had bedbugs. Maurice went to one of the other local Albergues here and suffered. I wont be around to see the slugfest that develops in the morning, but there are Spanish hikers and Italian cyclists, so no doubt some competition for odor as well as facilities. I have my tissues and lavender oil at the ready to combat odors. Tried, trusted and true.

Lastly, there’s some sort of Gregorian Chant ceremony at 1900. The Albergue went out of it’s way to advertise it. Then there’s a pilgrim blessing at 2130. On a Tuesday? I bought a Gregorian chant version of “Fade to Grey” in about 1999. It bored me shitless so I think that I’ve had my fill, but I may go along so long as I can sit near the exit and there’s no compunction to stay. Being able to smuggle in a snifter would be a distinct advantage.

I gather it’s monsoon season in London. Sorry to hear that.

Anyone had a word with Lord Dampnut about his theories on global warming? Sorry. He has no “theories”. He doesn’t have the faculties or the attention span to begin to try to process the concept.

There are parallels with the White House and compliance departments worldwide at investment banks. Over-paid, linear-thinkers with their heads planted well up their keisters, conditioned to a reflexive “NO” rather than to try and think through something more detailed, or heaven forbid, NEW. Thereafter, the thought-process hardens, like cement – slow, but irreversible. The individual resistance becomes an entrenched, departmental view because to change the view suggests fault – to which no one will admit, so sweep it under the carpet. Then it becomes the corporate “truth”. Yeah, like Gallifuckingleo and the Catholic Church. Better stop now. Sorry. Looking for my meds. Amazon drone-drop anyone??

Buen Camino.

Day 22 Photo Gallery

The day was all about the morning and the morning was all about the start of the day…

It’s been getting colder in the mornings and today it really turned. It was colder than a witch’s titty. I had the prescience to buy a pair of €4.50 gloves yesterday, and this morning to look out my (limited) cold-weather wear (err, Spain, middle of Summer…), but it wasn’t enough. No good having warm under-layers if your outerwear doesn’t breath (that problem taken care of by shopping at my alternate destination, today). You retain perspiration, which then evaporates when the wind blows or you stop moving.

And the wind blew. A lot.

That said, it was quite magical.

I started off at 0600 intending to complete the 26km leg to Molinaseca by about noon. The vestige of yesterday’s full moon remained, so there was a lot of soft light. Quite yummy. To begin with…

I was first out of my albergue (cyclists and tourists are later-risers) but I soon saw others from other nearby albergues with a similar idea. Today was a mountain stage (up down, up down), and I was looking forward to it after the turgid, linear, road-hugging stretches of the past couple of days.

It was quickly an uphill hike, and weather conditions changed significantly about 30 minutes after departure, still well before first light. As I ascended, the mist quickly came in and the wind began to blow. It began with a soft “whooshing” whistle that made the high-voltage wires hiss in tandem, but soon turned to a much lower, reverberating hum, like the extended “m” at the end of a yoga “omm”.

It was pretty dark, the ambulant mist flashed past the moon, hid it, gave it back, hid it again, and we had changing sound-effects. I wasn’t worried because the route was clear, I had done my homework beforehand and I had Mr Petzel (surprisingly others had nothing, so I became a temporary Pied Piper).

I reached Foncebadón at about 0700, so 5.5km uphill in an hour in inclement weather. Decent pace. Alas, despite the genius of the iPhone, it still can’t capture what the eye sees. These photos are intended to try and convey the visual obscurity that I encountered, but they don’t do it anywhere near justice…

I decided to re-layer, despite the impeding sunrise and (usual) increase in temperature. I came up to the semi-open door of a non-descript brick building and just went in. This was the albergue, “Monte Irago”. I was smitten for reasons I just don’t know. I wasn’t in duress. I didn’t absolutely have to stop. I could have quickly and comfortably re-layered on the street; no biggie. I just walked through the door, though.

This is what I found, and once again the iPhone (or any camera) can’t convey how special it was. It was tangibly, palpably different to ALL of the other albergues. Inexplicably tranquil, yet bustling at the same time.

There was something about the music they played, the arrangement of the tables and the host who looked like a more muscular Roger Daltrey in his better years.

Above the fireplace, were nailed all number of thanks, messages, encouragement, quotations and photos. Some were there a very long time. The place had a spirit. The Daltrey-doppelgänger hustled and bussed tables in a yogi, tie-dyed top and khaki, army fatigue shorts. He knew what he was doing. Clearly had front-of-house experience. He even chided an older customer for leaving too much food on his plate, and pointed to a sign saying ‘Minimise food waste. Only take what you will eat.’ The client remonstrated, embarrassed. Daltrey gave no quarter. Bitch-slap that mutha, Rog!

I had an entirely unplanned buffet breakfast for €3.50, several hours earlier than my usual reward: strong coffee + muesli + granary bread + great Karma.

For reasons I cannot logically articulate, this place got to me. So happy and peaceful. So far, the best experience of the trip. I would have happily just sat there and greedily absorbed more of it, but only 30 minutes, then onwards.

That’s an ambience and business model I’d love to replicate, Doris…

And, what a difference 30 minutes makes…

The sun was now up. You could see. Sort of. The wind abated and the mist swirled less, though it still languished, intentions and directions unclear. It was cold though. Almost on cue, the package holiday (faux) pilgrims sidled out from their digs with their new, unsullied gear and tentatively, looking for the way. Mostly Italian. Most wearing “Quecha”. All completely clueless, but stylishly clueless nonetheless. All noisy. STFU.

I caught up with the Lithuanian lads at Acebo, the next stop at +11.2km. They’re a funny duo – great friends but very different. Luke and John – I finally got their names. How Biblical. More like Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble the way they play off each other.

So, I hiked with Luke to Molinaseca and John thereafter to Ponferrada. Collectively, we solved a lot of the unsolved mysteries of the Universe. Luke is encyclopaedic about philosophy and psychology; John is equally imbued but less loquacious. Definitely Yin and Yang.

Luke looks like Ed Norton with an out-of-control beard (more Rasputin, actually) and John… like a quietly-intellectual Barney Rubble with black, mirror, Aviator Raybans. We split as we entered Ponferreda. They wanted an albergue with a kitchen as they’d been hauling food, and I wanted an albergue nearer the center of town. I have no doubt, we’ll cross again. Introducing excessive alcohol into this social equation would be a hoot. That’s the plan. My plan, at least.

I’m tapping this out in a bar off the main drag, having done all my laundry, bought a breathable outer layer and now being subjected to multiple Demis Roussos tracks. WTF with any self-respect or taste, plays Demis Roussos – in the 21st century, except his relatives…

Hold on…

Piperis… are you here, with your extended peasant family, spying, messing with my noodle…?

Stick to overnighting with your own, personal travel pillow when you have an “away fixture…” with a new lady. A bad, indelible memory for her, I’m sure. Like a drunken tattoo. I have a long memory, G.

My albergue, Guiana, is on lock down until 0600, so it will be a later start. No choice there. But, after an inadvertent 34km day, tomorrow will be shorter, unless something comes up.

Today was a good day. Nighty-night.

Day 23 Photo Gallery