Category: The Trip

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

The bus left the sports shop (no mistake) promptly at 0645. €8 and 90 minutes to Santiago and familiar territory.

My pack has begun to smell. Despite being aired out every day, with it’s fabric absorbing 35+ days of perspiration and body oil, it shouldn’t be a surprise, I guess. Have I become that which I abhor…? The left luggage is €3.50 at the bus station and since that’s my departure point to the airport later, that’s where the pack resided for the day. Locker 36 to be precise.

Being previously reliant on so-so maps and without GPS, my recall of detail is much stronger, such that finding my way into town from the edges where the bus station is located was easy. A lot of small things imprinted in my near-term memory, like a remarkably vivid picture.

The weather remained overcast until about 1330, then things got hot.

It seems quieter than when I was here last week. Think I’m also aware of more tourists than Pilgrims. Can’t quantify it, just a hunch. Maybe it’s nothing and just my own headspace.

Sanitariness aside, you just need to look at gait, footwear and gear to identify tourists or pilgrims. Pilgrims walk as if they’ve been vigorously fisted; tourists float along comfortably. Pilgrims typically have dirty, worn boots/shoes or Tevas with filthy, crusty socks, both in darker, earth tones. Tourists’ footwear is typically bright and pristine, sporting trendy colours, and if they do have a pack, it looks very unused. The “Quechua” brand is also a give-away. It’s good-looking gear, though I can’t speak to its robustness. Oh, then there are the wooden walking poles with the metallic ends, tack-tack-tacking along the sidewalk, serving no purpose whatsoever other than to annoy. I can’t tell you the number of sticks I have seen with price tags still on them. They are useful in the mountains (particularly 700km ago) or as elevations change, but they are totally redundant in the city. Duh!

It was delightful to meander through the old part of town when it’s quiet and only the cafes open. You get to the end of the old part, come upon noise, traffic and different architecture and just turn around, looking for some more streets to get lost in. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. The overcast weather must have also deterred earlier starts because it only become busier by noon. I sat in the main square, and to my point earlier, I didn’t see the influx of hikers that I had expected. I guess it ebbs and flows.

The Mercado de Abastos de Santiago feels like it’s hidden away, but it’s not. It’s right off the main drag, but its location and sounds are obscured by buildings. Thirty seconds and a quick left down a tight side-street followed by a right, and there you are: a completely different world with real people and real businesses, yet still in the old part of town. Google Translate says that “abastos” means “supplies”, which makes sense because I found rows of butchers and  fishmongers, sellers of frozen salt-fish, vegetable stalls and of course, wine. Very picturesque.

Off to the bus station and airport shortly. I’m not going to walk.

Still need to figure out where to stay in Barcelona tonight. Flight arrives 2240 (then there’s luggage to come off and transit to hotel) and tomorrow’s leg boards at 0640 for an 0720 departure. That means to be safe, I need to be back at the airport by 0600 to check-in my smelly-pack. My grey matter is processing the possibility of roughing it in the airport for the night, more for convenience than cost. Maybe we’re going into overload mode.

… and here at the airport, it’s a painful world of contrasts.

Galacia has erected a modern, overbuilt, impressive White Elephant of a terminal through some sort of EC subsidy with Frau Merkel’s Euros. Outside there’s enough vacant parking space for a fleet of combine-harvesters and a couple of aircraft carriers. On the tarmac there are four aircraft: departing Veuling Airbus for London, a DHL cargo jet, a Cessna 172 (Lovely old high-wing jalopy. I was flying one when my Dad died. Those events are unconnected) and a Citation CJ4. Hardly bulging at the seams.

There’s virtually no one in the airport itself. I count 47 people in departures including cafeteria and ground staff, but… they won’t let me drop my baggage off until two hours or less before the flight. A pudgy, unhelpful check-in jockey with a very suspicious moustache, Mr. “I Don’t Give a Shit”, managed to snort “two hours before” and turned away, disgusted I think, at my being so presumptuous. I am already checked-in, I have boarding passes (plural) and I have seat 11D allocated. Why not take my baggage?

It’s not as if they lack capacity or are swamped with passengers. They have three check-in desks open for two flights this evening – Gatwick and Barcelona – and almost zero waiting time to check in. Aargh!

Why, oh why Spain, relapse to third world behaviour yet again? You were doing so well…  I think it comes back to the unionised, red tape mentality, a ‘things only getting done as they’ve always been done’ mindset and an in-bred inability to multi-task (previously observed ad nauseam). Check-in jockeys are no different to baristas.

Still no resolution on accommodation.

Manaña.

Day 39 Photo Gallery

Apologies.  A couple of logistical difficulties have resulted in a delay for this posting.

The journey from the rudimentary comforts of the Camino to the creature comforts of Grasse was straightforward but expensive. What I learned about French public transport is that, as advertised on the interwebs, there is indeed a bus service from the Promenade outside Nice airport, direct to Grasse bus station. However, it is almost impossible to get a seat. The 500 bus operates once every half-hour, but by the time it reaches the bus-stop, it is full, and doesn’t stop. I saw three of them pass me by, and was forced to have my face ripped off with a €114  cab fare for a 30 minute ride; equivalent to 10+ nights in an albergue. Sheesh! Live and learn.

So, it’s done. Overall, not as hard as I expected. A lot learned. I would do this again, whether the Camino Frances again, or another. Next one likely to be the Camino Norte, though I don’t know when exactly, as the main albergue opening season draws to a close in October and only re-opens in March. I’d like to do an Alps trip this year, which would only take 6-8 days, but with very much greater changes in elevation. Since I could only do that from mid-October, I run into similar difficulties for when the “huts” are open for hikers – not to mention weather considerations. That leaves the West Highland Way in Scotland in November. Well, if I want to be miserable, cold and wet, I’d prefer to do that from the comfort of my home.

Thank you for reading this and indulging my vanity, profanity and occasional insanity. I’ll post some more occasional profanity and embarrassing pictures of a couple of friends over the next couple of weeks, as well as whatever catches my eye in Hawaii, thereafter.

For those who can’t remember when the BBC didn’t broadcast 24 hours a day, Test Card F (above) was used during downtime hours. It has an interesting story behind it, if you’re interested – Test Card F .

The main point though, is not that there is no further broadcasting… rather that this is downtime ahead of resumption of “normal” service. “Normal”? Hah! No such thing.

Stay tuned.

Besos,

Des