Category: The Trip

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

Uneventful passage following an 0620 departure and 23.5km hike through mostly vineyards.

I stopped in Fuentes Nuevas for breakfast because of a cute dog sitting outside Bar La Ermita – see photo.

Don’t make my mistake.

Luke and John came by as I was finishing up and I ushered them off to another gaff; this place only offered dry toast and so-so coffee.

My next stop was Cacabelos, a lovely little village with a number of interesting bars and cafes, and varied architecture. Next time, it would make a good stopping point. Martín Códax sells a decently-priced Albariño through Waitrose, and has a Bodega here so I assume they also have operations nearby. I’ve attached some photos.

I stopped at “Pulperia Compostela” because of their extensive menu and very cool, wood-carved sign out front. I hoped for some Karmic, culinary recompense for my canine deception and crappy breakfast. WRONG. They advertise an extensive, attractive, eclectic menu from 0900 but only serve from… 1300. Something wrong with those advertising standards, methinks. Coffee and croissant was still an improvement though.

I arrived at destination at a very leisurely 1230 and had targeted a private hostel, de la Piedra, because it was on the other, outbound side of town, at a higher price point and private. When, I arrived, there was a sign:

“Cleaning the albergue. Please make yourself comfy. Help yourself to tea and coffee. Back soon”.

So, I took off my pack and boots. The proprietor soon returned.

“Sorry. We are full. Can I call the next nearest albergue for you..?” he said, as he pulled out his phone.

“Not to worry. That’s how it goes. Thanks. That would be great” said I, deflatedly, as I pulled my boots back on…

“Where are you from..?” he asked.

“Originally, Scotland.” I said, one boot done up.

“Ah, Scotland………..  You know, I may have one single room left. No bunks. It’s €20 including linens and breakfast. Let me show you…”

And so, I got a private room for €8 more than a dormitory bunk, with linens and breakfast.

Now, I’m not sure if it was REALLY because I said “Scottish” as opposed to “English wanker” or “condescending British cock” or “loud-mouth American know-it-all”, or because I was polite and didn’t complain, but something worked. Wish I could bottle it. And, I will continue to unashamedly used that race card. For as much as I despise (deliberate choice of words) what my region (deliberate choice of words) has become, I still identify with it (as convenient).

HOWEVER, this is the first time in 23 days that I have encountered a potential problem, and no coincidence that in the corner of the albergue sat a large number of bags that had been shipped in for the faux pilgrims. Lots of tags.

BTW, I arrived at 1230. The albergue opened at 1230. Later, nearer 1400, two people from my same albergue of the prior night (Sarah the English-lady and Kim-Jong-Un, the NK doppelgänger) tried to check in and were politely rebuffed, though with the same polite offer of telephonic assistance (I don’t think you’d get that in London or NYC…  Just sayin’), which KJU declined, puzzlingly. I really felt bad, sitting there. No room at the inn… I got lucky, and I don’t take it for granted.

Lessons learned:

• Use “Scottish” at all times. It may be as effective/impactful as “impaired/disabled”.
• Faux pilgrims and their lackeys are better at pre-booking and choose well-rated, private albergues
• Going to a private albergue, even early, is no guarantee of a bed
• Perhaps a “strategic pivot” to only stay at the municipal albergues, as a rule, going forward
• Probabilities of “habitacion” success are still more favored by early arrival at destination

I’m sitting in the Plaza Major, eating at the Seville Compostela, a large, outdoor covered cafe with a cheap pilgrim menu (€11).  The squid was overdone. The Hake was tasteless and bony. The salad, insipid. The service surly and slow. My coffee’s sitting there getting cold. Should I?  Shouldn’t I?

Today has not been a successful food-day. Pretty ghastly, actually.

 

However, the sun is shining (sorry Londoners), I got lucky with habitacion (btw,the albergue has a 2 year old Retriever called André. I sucked up to him, and he to me, to positively reinforce the proprietor’s prior judgment), I have my own power-sockets to charge from, I don’t need to do laundry today, the farmacia was open so I could replenish my foot lotions, my cold-weather layering worked very well this morning (6 degrees Celsius) and I can still put one foot in front of the other and focus completely on the present.

 

 

I really shouldn’t complain. Nuff said.

 

Stop Press:  Friendly, goateed, tattooed, Spanish dude that I met at Hospital de Orbigo just came up to me. We spoke, Star Trek-style, via our “Google Translate” universal translators. He, too, is headed for O’Cebreiro tomorrow, but said there were “few beds” so he’s off at 0400. Ugh. Not me. Hope that wont be a regret. Manaña banana…

Day 24 Photo Gallery

I’ve travelled 37.5km today and find myself on the top of a hill, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in Galicia. On one side of the road, there the municipal albergue. On the other, the private albergue and my berth for the night. Nothing else.

As we crossed into Galicia, we were regaled with a spray-pained coat of arms, which nonetheless looked quite regal and self-important. The Camino way-markers have changed and now give distances to Santiago in kilometres to three decimal places. Yup. Three. I have the proof. The iPhone doesn’t lie.

Why on earth do that? Who gives a shit and without a footnote to the methodology and source, how can I be sure the data is accurate in the first place? Trust the Government? Nope. Trust a regional government? Nope. These are the things that go through my head. Sorry.

It’s energizing to get back into the mountains and to have the sweeping views of multiple valleys intersecting like disorganized, inverted triangles with wobbly tops. We’re at 1,335m ASL, having started at about 550m. This is as high as it gets for this area. Plenty high when you’re walking it and the path is not continually up: it’s up-down-DOWN-down-UP-up-down-UP. You get the picture. The last leg to the albergue was only about 1km, but had multiple switchbacks with a continually steep-ascent. When you can see your destination, switchbacks are thoroughly demoralizing and energy-sapping.

The day started with much lower aspirations and a 25-28km target to O’Cebreiro or Laguna de Castillo, a couple of clicks before. I cleared the first 10.2km in remarkable time, about 90 minutes. I felt good, weather was decent, there was asphalt underfoot, and off I went with Mr Petzl and no tunes, just nature and what seems like a gradually increasing cadence.

I clocked Lithuanian John/Rasputin puffing on a roll-up in Trabadelo, and stopped to exchange morning pleasantries and stories. Esther, a delightfully-sweet German hairdresser who has become their de facto travel partner got a text from a girlfriend further along, that the faux Pilgrims were of such volume that there was very little accommodation in the towns up to Sarria, and they had actually opened the stadium to take the overflow so pilgrims could sleep there. Ohhhh, shitsville.

I temporarily berthed in Ambasmetas, 5km up the road, (note to self: stay here next time) and did some quick planning. I suspected that the volumes were also a function of pilgrims doing the last 100km over five days and wanting to be in Santiago on a Saturday and/or Sunday, so I decided to tailor my journey to NOT be there at a weekend and to be walking on to Finisterre. That meant shrinking another three days into two: today and tomorrow. I pre-booked my berths as a precaution. Whether my logic is correct or not, I don’t know, but I feel better about it as a plan, as it stands up to common-sense scrutiny as well as the developing fact-pattern.

I rejoined John/Rasputin, Esther/Angel and Luke/Yasar Arafat with a savant-Barney Rubble personality disorder in Vera del Vercarce as we all re-layered, and we concluded the rest of the day’s business as a four. They’re great people to walk with. All quite different. They each had their own stories. To a great extent, they have collectively defined/personified the Camino for me. They also have a wonderful grasp of English idiom, sarcasm, irony and humor. I began to wean them onto “Essex Girl” jokes but was mindful of the presence of a lady.

“What’s the difference between an Essex Girl and a KitKat?”

“What’s the difference between an Essex Girl and the Titanic?’

In the spirit of decorum and good taste, I certainly wont answer these… but I will direct you the link below:

The trio concluded their day at Hospital de la Condesa whereas I moseyed onto Alto do Poio and my pre-booked crib – which is where I am composing, right now. It is effectively a truck stop…but quite picturesque.

As we parted at Hospital de la Condesa, Luke asked me that I were to receive a gift to remind me of our (collective) time together, would I prefer it to be sentimental or practical? Well, that caught me by surprise. I responded that I’d answer tomorrow to which he said, if there was no tomorrow…

Given that the Camino is anything but a practical undertaking, I responded ‘sentimental”. He said he always carried something with him from his home country, and proceeded to take off a red pin, shaped like a shield with a gold coat of arms – the Lithuanian national symbol. What does one say or do when faced with gratuitous, spontaneous acts of empathy? Well, being the shallow git that I am, I thanked him profusely with fawning, Hugh Grantesque, British embarrassment and we all moved on. These are the memories that will stay with me.

Well, the sun is once again shining (sorry Londoners), the views indescribable, the trucks departing and my recovery times seem to be improving. No laundry today – no facilities and I plan to be more European and share my scent.

Everyone getting off this last part of the trail has lost any semblance of self-control and is gasping like a gaffed-pike (I was much cooler and more composed, trust me…).  It’s 1800 and still there are pilgrims pouring out, and moving on. I hope they have a plan – or maybe they’re just better at planning than I am…

There are increasing numbers of Spaniards, Italians and mountain-bikers on the trails. Lots of day-packers, or no-packers. I’m beginning to wonder if the best is now behind me, and looking forward to clearing Santiago and moving onto the more serene, less populous surroundings towards Finisterre and Muxia. Still a bit to go, though. I’ve become a snob. I can live with that.

Late dinner for me, at least) tonight at 1900, but I am sick and tired of bread, pasta, fried this and that, more bread, more pasta. I’m hoping for Galicia to surprise me.

I’ll tell you tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Sarria, 35km away, is pre-booked. Fail to plan…

Day 25 Photo Gallery

Firstly, last night’s dinner was a disappointment. Ho-hum paella to start. Main course was one fried egg, some sort of over-done “cow-beef” and soggy chips. I had two orders of the main course. I needed fuel, however basic.

This is what I got. Twice…

I had a room to myself with its own loo and shower. Quite the treat – until I tried to use it. The loo was cleverly wedged into a corner: I had to reverse then sit, pivot and swing my legs around, and then almost sit with them up at my chin in a “half-crunch” posture. Makes for quick work. The trouble with the shower itself was that it was so small that to reach down to soap my ass or legs, I had to open the shower door to give my elbow room to move, as the dimensions just didn’t work otherwise. Perhaps TMI here?

The beds were kiddie beds. I can’t be described as “tall” at 5ft 10in, but my head hit the headboard and my feet were over the end. Still, I slept well. I wouldn’t book this crib again and when I get round to rating all the places I’ve stayed, this will certainly be lower on the list.

Today’s 31km felt a lot longer than the distance might suggest. There were a lot of repeated ascents and descents to tax the legs. With the exception of two breaks where I came across some familiar faces, I was once again solo. Maybe company over the prior day had “softened” me. Need to be disciplined.

Not much more I can really say about the journey today. Trails. Asphalt. Sun. Greenery. Hamlets. Trails. Cows. Sun. Goats. Trails. Greenery. Asphalt. Destination. At my Pintin rest stop, I did see Canadian Alex and French Stan, his travel partner whom I completely failed to recognise from the dormitory in Hospital Orbigo. Mea culpa again, Stan. They’ve got a little posse  together (Canada, France, Italy – like a mini-NATO) and are probably headed past Sarria to Vilei.

Tomorrow, I’m back to the early start regimen. Starting 0630-0700 just feels too late and typically has me walking until 1500-1530 with 30-35km segments. I much prefer 0500-0530 and a bit of dark, “quiet-time” with an earlier finish. Gotta listen to the internal Circadian chitter-chatter.

It’s 1800. I’m off to stretch the legs then retire early. Doris is at Glyndebourne with Numpty and Maidrian, and is clearly more interested in her Pimms than in my progress. They’re pretending to be knowledgeable and cultured patrons of the arts, and no doubt over-achieving as pretentious gits. Gotta be good at something, right?

Mwah!

Day 26 Photo Gallery

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