Slog-Blog

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