Category: The Trip

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

As planned, short, leisurely and mission accomplished early on: Compostela, mass (well, I confess – inside joke – about 20 minutes of it, but I then felt the effects of my anti-emetic wearing off so caution dictated that I leave), check-in, shower, lunch. I mis-spoke yesterday: a Compostela is not a prerequisite for attending mass. Sorry.

What can I say?

Like most of the larger towns I’ve encountered along the Camino, modernisation and urbanisation means that the main drag into Santiago is long, ugly and boring.

The old city is another matter.

The God Squad has this placed locked-up, tight. Very clean. Lots of albergues, pensions and hotels. Lots of back streets, crisis-crossing with no apparent logic to the street plan. Many old, beautiful buildings. Saints and supplicants carved here. Crucifixes imprinted there. Gargoyles and serpents bulging. Virgins all over the place. This is a beautiful town but commercial change spurred by growing tourist volumes means it has lost some of its natural charm.

A couple of factoids to put volume and ugly commercialisation into perspective:

2016 – 277,915 pilgrims arrived

2006 – 100,377 pilgrims arrived

1996 – 23,218 pilgrims arrived

The Holy Compostelan Years of 2010, 2004 and 1999, when 25 July falls on a Sunday, had even-greater outsized attendance on account of the occasion. Yesterday, 506 pilgrims arrived in town. Today 767 (so far), according to official sources in Santiago. See https://oficinadelperegrino.com/en/.  It’s a growing business.

I’ve only seen Lina and Thibault so far today. Lina’s another Lithuanian who’s been wending her way to Santiago from St Jean Pied de Port, mostly solo. I think she’s gong onto Finisterre.  Thibaud’s not sure about his plans; he has some other friends to coordinate with, but think he may move onto Finisterre. I hope so. I saw Brea’ from Ireland late yesterday. I suspect she’s here too, but moving a bit more slowly under the intense sun. Yasser, Rasputin and Esther were a day ahead and are exploring Finisterre by bus. I may see them later for dinner. I recognise some other faces but only in terms of passing nods or smiles. Big town/lots of streets/long way.

Here are a couple of photos of Ultreia, an eight-week old Pitbull puppy that I met at lunch.  I asked to take the photos but I felt like a ‘manther’ approaching her owner, who is no older than my niece, and certainly violates the [age/2]+7 dating rule of thumb.  She then gave me the beast to hold….

Ultreia chewed my chin fuzz, gently but with purpose. Right now, her teeth are like blunted needles, but imagine her capacity with an exposed windpipe when she’s full-grown, 65lbs and pissed off…?

Nothing so cute as a puppy, particularly if it has a squashed face…

I need to excuse myself now and figure out how I exit Santiago and move on towards Finisterre. I hadn’t planned it in any detail (only got the book an hour earlier) beyond the intention of doing it – and tomorrow I do it.

I understand the exit route for the most part, but it’s not well-signposted at all – I’ve just walked it out a couple of kilometres in daylight. There are fewer albergues, there are many fewer pilgrims and it is less-well-signposted than the Camino Frances. More of an adventure?

It should be an early start but a shortish day of 22km+/-. The following two will be long days of 33km+… unless I change tomorrow’s routing. I’ve been told that lower (human) traffic volumes on Camino Finisterre mean you don’t need to arrive as early (1300) to be assured of a crib, but I’m not wholly-convinced. I’ll start early(ish) tomorrow to test the thesis and ask the proprietors when I get there. Boots on the ground and roots in the ground. Let’s see.

Doris just shot me a BBC headline about a van being driven into crowds in the Ramblas tourist area in Barcelona. No further detail.

I’ll be in Barcelona on Friday/Saturday, but nowhere near people.

I am a proponent of the death penalty for treason and terrorism. I’m a bit undecided on sedition, so call me ‘soft’. I can take the heat. If this is indeed terrorism, find ‘em and hang ‘em high, Generalissimo-style…

For those with a more numerical interest in the topic, see this: Official Table of Drops

Manaña.

Day 31 Photo Gallery

Dinner was fun last night, despite Angel thinking she was getting a vegetarian salad that turned out to have eggs and tuna in it – so much for “house salad” definitions. Rasputin ensured there was no food waste, however. Thoughtful chap. He also assisted with Yasser’s surplus whisky. Most accommodating.

Rasputin and Yasser had an 0500 train so they crashed on my floor until 0300. I didn’t hear them leave and they were the best of house guests – you’d never have known they were there.

Good night. Good Camino. Goodbye.

Via con Dios.

A bit more of the mass I missed.

It was indeed overcrowded, in a foreign tongue, of a religion for which I care little and… the Botafumeiro was not to be swung.

The Botafumeiro is the “smells” of my ‘bells and smells’ rejoinder. It’s the historical equivalent of fumigation – arriving pilgrims were smelly (still the case), tired and unwashed (still the case). It was believed that incense smoke had a prophylactic effect in the time of plague and epidemic, and would be a cleansing agent (I use lavender essential oil, which is much easier to transport). So, the stinkers were smoked out and this became, over time, an “oration to God”. Uh huh…

The Botafumeiro is a large thurible that hangs by means of a system of pulleys from the main dome of the Cathedral. It takes eight men (in red robes) to move it. They are known as “tiraboleiros”. It weighs between 53kg and 160kg depending on the specific thurible in use, and the amount of fuel therein. At the top of the swing, the Botafumeiro reaches heights of ~21m. It swings in a 65m arc between the Azabachería and Praterias doorways at the nave ends of the transept. The maximum angle achieved is about 82° and can be reached after about 17 cycles, which requires about 80 seconds of swinging. I’m thinking this has more of a place in Rollerball circa 1975 with Messers Cletus and Moonpie rather than in a church ceremony, but until that mindset shifts, it’s an occasional attraction in Santiago (next up: All Saints’ Day on 1 Nov 17). BTW, the God Squad will rent it out by appointment. Well, of course they would…

On to today’s business.

Well, I awoke to good news and bad news.

The good (magic/terrific) was that Rachel and Jeff welcomed Poppy Amelia Marlaine at 1527 London time at a weight of 10lbs 3oz (oof!!). Rachel looked pretty tired but everyone is healthy.  It’s been a long road for the three of them. Jeff’s photos had you there with them. Right there and then. Literally. Thank you Jeff. Love the headgear, but why’d they not cover the goatee too…?

The bad (shocking/appalling/sickening) news, was detail about the Barcelona van attack killing 13 and injuring more than 100 in Las Ramblas, with the driver still believed to be at large. This is the worst attack in Spain since 2004. Once again, very effective “low-tech” attacks on “soft targets”. Hard to anticipate. Harder to defend against. Doris and I have meandered along Las Ramblas in the past. Wrong time. Wrong place. It amplifies one’s luck and vulnerability, at  the same time.

It also rained this morning which meant I delayed my departure until 0800. I only do ‘wet’ in the shower, unless completely unavoidable.

The hike was short at just over 21km, through forest and a couple of villages. I met a delightful Irish couple from Cork and we chatted over the last 7-10km. Terry is still recovering from the financial crisis that decimated his (large) plumbing business, but in typically-plucky Irish style, he’s rebuilding and winning. His girlfriend, Tina, was even pluckier. She sustained massive leg injuries in a car crash some time ago, yet she is determined to complete individual sections, to the extent the pain and swelling permits. She reminds me of a great friend who underwent catastrophic injury, only to be the hardest, most intransigent, most determined mofo that I know.

I’m berthed at Albergue Anjun, uncharacteristically the first Albergue in town.

Why?

Early there. No one else. Guaranteed bed. New facility. Ability to do laundry and have it dry (last part critical)… and the lady running the place had a bit of an overweight, earth-mama vibe going, which I liked. As I wandered out for sustenance and this blog, I was joined in the dormitory by an older, smelly white man with swollen ankles. He even smelled after his shower.  I opened all the windows. I still don’t understand why this needs to be so. Shower. Launder (clothes, towel, sleeping bag). Deodorise. Three steps to olfactory and dormitory harmony. It’s just not that hard.

I’m running low on lavender essential oil, so on the hunt.

Tomorrow is a long 34km stint to Olveiroa, with 2/3 of it on tarmac, which is NO FUN. Elevation changes make it ~37km equivalent. That’s about 7-8 hours hiking plus 1.5 hours rest, so assuming I get away at 0530, that should be a 1400-1500 arrival. For accommodation, I’m torn between the 46 bed dormitory at Olveiroa Xunta at €6 a night (“one of the more inspiring Xunta hostels, reconstructed from traditional houses on either side of a quiet village lane”) and As Pisa at €40-60 a night for a single room (“handsomely reconstructed traditional stone house with restaurant/bar and terrace that gets the evening sun”).

Let’s see where we are tomorrow. The day after is still 32km to Finisterre.

Ciao.

Stop press:  Bruce Forsyth has died, aged 89. I can’t remember when I can’t remember him in some low-rent, late Saturday afternoon TV show on BBC1 or ITV.

He wont resonate with non-UK people, but to those in the UK aged 20+, he had a consistently beloved place, in some guise, at some point, on popular TV over the last 60+ years.

Don’t make ‘em like that no more. Bruce Forsyth. Jimmy Edwards. Sid James. Kenneth Williams. Charles Hawtrey. Tony Hancock. Tommy Cooper. Frank Muir. Bob Monkhouse. Benny Hill. Spike Milligan. Harry Secombe. Peter Sellars. Ronnie Corbett. Ronnie Barker. Dudley Moore. Peter Cooke. Eric Morecambe. Ernie Wise. Frankie Howard. Terry Scott. Passing of a generation. No one to replace them.

Day 32 Photo Gallery

Wish I had more to say, but it is much of the same. The weather in London is foul, here it is delightful. There are a lot of tourists and few familiar faces. There are fewer facilities than earlier on the Camino. Prices are about 30% higher than Navarre, and food quality lower. The landscape is much the same as the last 30-odd days.

I started out at 0530 and arrived at 1345 after two relatively long breaks for coffee. The heat picked up quite quickly, making the going much harder from 0900 onwards. It’s not perspiration or physical, muscular effort, per se, it’s heat and pain in the feet. Discomfort. Both increase very quickly to produce hot spots and numb patches. Take the boots off for 15-30 minutes and they’re gone and I’m good for another 10-14km, the same again. Weird.

The pictures say more than words today (you’ll thank me for that)… except that they don’t capture the pervasive stink of manure and cattle-farming that has accompanied me for the last 200km or so.

I don’t know anything about cattle farming (milkers or beef for slaughter) but I do see a stark contrast here: cows freely grazing outside and cows trapped inside, in dank conditions, kneeling down or bent over on hard concrete with their necks and heads held in heavy grating (like an old-fashioned “pillory”), and food in a trough in front of them. I’m not really a bleeding heart about these things, but repeated sightings of the latter have made me increasingly uncomfortable and a bit sad. These beasts hardly look happy. Then again, how am I qualified to evaluate their happiness?

Today’s albergue is an anomaly. I was attracted to it because of the whimsical description in a couple of the books/websites, but it is basic. BASIC. On reflection, a bad decision.

It’s €6 per night (that is NOT the driver for me) but it is like a mini-commune/squat. You turn up to the “office” and read the instructions.: “Take any free bed. Come back here at 1900-1930 to pay”. So, I did.

The loos are basic. Paper, yes. Lighting, no.

The shower (strong, emphatic singular): basic (and sloshing in water from prior use) and a year-round arrowslit for light and ventilation.

There is a bar. Basic, and staffed by what I’m guessing is an over-weight, single-mother who is downright surly.

You can do laundry – by hand. Yay! Basic (let’s see how many of my clothes pegs are ‘liberated’ by the gyppos).

I’m an Adam Smith/John Hume fan of property rights, but this is quite different to anything I’ve seen so far. I’m simultaneously intrigued and fearful.

At 1500, the place was ~25% full. Since then I’ve seen a lot of hippie and gyppo-types looking for the place. I envisage a noisy, smelly night, but I am near a window (though too high and not big enough to escape through). There are only a couple of working power points to charge devices with. It’s 1800 now, and they continue to stream in…

Ah well, my last night in an albergue, so suffering must be good for the soul – and will teach me to spend the extra €34 in future…

I’ve depleted my supply of lavender essential oil, but in the “take what you need, leave what you don’t” basket in the previous albergue, I found tea tree essential oil. It’s a much more iodine and clinical scent than lavender, but it will be my antidote tonight.

Finisterre tomorrow. It’s about 33km to Finisterre, and a further 3.5km to the fabled lighthouse at the top of Monte Facho. Temperature here is 28ºC rising to 30ºC tomorrow. Finisterre, on the coast, will be 28ºC tomorrow falling to 22ºC on Tuesday (grr…). Muxia hasn’t made it onto the weather app but is ~28km north of Finisterre so should be about the same.

Finisterre lies 42.8848° N, 9.2717° W (42°52’57”N, 9°16’20”W).  It was long believed to be the most westerly point in Europe, but Cabo de Rocca in Portugal is 16.5km further west (38°46’51”N, 9°30’2”W). Despite this, it remains a whimsical, romantic, cathartic “go-to” destination for Pilgrims and other tourist suckers.

I have but two days of hiking left. It’s all passed so quickly. So much pent-up invective still to release…

Manaña.

Day 33 Photo Gallery

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