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…