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.