Posts Tagged ‘galicia’

En castellano

Dawn on the mountain of joy

With only 5km to go there was no rush. Even so, we had to be out of the albergue by 8am, at least, in theory… the day before I had seen folk leaving at 11 but they were Spanish and maybe there’s a constitutional right somewhere deep in the founding documentation of the country that gives them a lie in. We wandered up past the sculpture to grab a picture of it in the early sun and joined the flow of people all of whom wore satisfied smiles despite a lot of hobbling and limping along.

We stopped for breakfast, I wanted chocolate and churros, even though it was high summer… but the waitress told us that there was toast or toast no matter what the sign outside said, maybe there would be a pack of cake if she looked really hard. Not surprising becuase this was the first cafe on the way into town and there had been a lot of early risers, she looked tired and run off her feet.

Done!

The rest of the walking was urban, along main roads or into the city pretty quickly. The walkers grouped at red lights and the drivers of Santiago seemed to be unnaturally patient while these big groups crossed roads. The outskirts of the city were nothing to write home about, and we kept up a good pace to reach the old town. As we got nearer the buildings were lower, the streets narrower and we were  struck by the numbers of youth marching around in gangs with matching t-shirts that proclaimed their part in the mass youth pilgrimage 2010.  We passed one of the gates into the old centre of the city, into the narrow pedestrian streets, the signs pointing this way and that. We passed the back of the cathedral, the North entrance, which is where the pilgrims of old would enter the cathedral (and burn their clothes, both in a rite of purification and  because they reeked like six month old fish no doubt). We continued past the lone piper (there is apparently only one place in the city where they let the pipers play every day, otherwise the citizens complain about the noise) and finally entered the plaza de obredorio, the famous square bounded by the cathedral, the university, the town hall and the fantastically luxurious hotel el hospital los reyes catolicos (The hospital of the catholic kings).

So where are we again?

So, that was it. I can’t say I felt spiritually moved, or indeed moved very much at all, happy to finish a long walk, enjoying the experience of a new city but not any more than that (for me, at least, the walking was the sole reason to do it).

We sat and stood and took a few photos, admiring the lichen covered stone of the cathedral. Then we headed off to the pilgrim’s office to get our compostelas. These are the official certificates documenting your indulgence from Jimmy for having walked all the way to see him. The queue was pretty long, we waited an hour before a very nice English lady asked to see my credentials and filled in my name (in latin) on the certificate.

Certificates in hand, we went to find our emergency hotel, which turned out to be a basic, but very pleasant pensión, right in the centre. We went out to buy a couple of postcards, enjoying the lightness of foot that comes with not wearing a rucksack, and then went in search of the line to hug a saint.

2010 is a holy year, because saint James’ day is on a Sunday, the next one will be in 2021. The holy years are big business for the cathedral, they have a special door (imaginatively called the holy door) which is bricked up the rest of the time. Just as in Rome, they unbrick it for the holy years and grant indulgences to those who enter (that’s different to our certified indulgences which are good for a free pizza in the vatican, I think. Hey what do I know, we never really did catechism at school). So the queue for the holy door goes around the block. We queued.

and it failed to rain...

When you go in you enter behind the main altar in the cathedral, the holy door is only for saint hugging, if you want to go to mass that’s another queue. You enter a small door in the ornate gilded rear part of the altar and follow some steps up until you’re directly behind the statue of saint Jim, and in our case, looking at the back of the bishop of somewhere as he said his mass to a packed audience. People hug the statue, from behind, like a “guess who”. Liz being game, and having experience of Rome, did the hugging thing. I refrained from patting him on the head and walked past. Then they direct you under the altar so you can walk past Santiago’s tomb, or more correctly, the box containing his remains (or even more correctly, the box containing some remains which are claimed to be those of saint Jim). He was a small chap, or there’s not much of him left. Then out into the hot sunlight, and all that remains is to find somewhere to eat and to figure out what to visit over the next two days.

Proof (mainly proof that we went to a few bars)

Castellano

Nos quedó 5km solo entonces no había prisa pero tuvimos que salir del albergue antes de las 8h, en teoría, el día anterior vi unas personas que salieron a las 11 pero eran Españoles y quizás hay una derecha constitucional que este muy dentro de la documentación de la fundación del país que las da la derecha de levantarse tarde. Paseamos por la escultura para sacar una foto en la luz de la mañana temprano, nos unimos con el corriente de gente que sonreían de satisfacción a pesar de cojear.

Hicimos una parada para desayunar, yo quería chocolate y churros aun que sea pleno verano, pero la camarera nos dijo que tenían pan tostado, o pan tostado no importaba que decía el cartel, quizás habría un bizcocho si ella buscara fijamente, no era una sorpresa porque este fue el primer bar en el camino hacia la ciudad y había muchos que se habían levantado pronto, la camarera parecía cansada y muy ocupada.

El resto del camino era urbano, tras carreteras principales y dentro de la ciudad en poco tiempo. Los peregrinos se agrupaban a los semáforos y los conductores de Santiago parecían pacientes de manera poco natural mientras esos grupos largos cruzaban. Los alrededores de la ciudad no eran notables, caminábamos con un buen ritmo para llegar al centro histórico. Cuando nos acercábamos, notábamos que los edificios tenían menos altura, las calles eran mas estrechas y nos llamaba atención que había un montón de jóvenes que iban en pandillas llevando camisetas idénticos que proclamaban sus participación en la peregrinación de la juventud 2010. Entramos en el centro antiguo de la ciudad por uno de los portales, por las calles estrechas y peatonales, vimos las señales que nos indicaban por todos lados. Pasamos por la parte atrás de la catedral, la entrada del norte, donde los peregrinos de antigüedad entraban en la catedral (y donde quemaban la ropa, como un rito de purificación y porque la ropa apestaban sin duda). Continuamos pasando por el gaitero (aparentemente había solo un lugar en la ciudad donde dejan tocar los gaiteros, sino los vecinos se quejan por el ruido) y al final entramos en la plaza de Obredorio, la plaza famosa rodeada por la catedral, la universidad, el ayuntamiento y el lujoso hospital de los reyes católicos.

Pues, se acabó. Yo no sentía nada espiritual, ni movido por nada más tampoco. Sentía feliz terminar un camino largo, disfrutaba la experiencia de una ciudad nueva pero nada más que eso (para mi, por lo menos, caminar es la única razón para hacerlo).

Nos sentamos, pusimos a pie, sacamos unas fotos, admiramos la piedra de la catedral cubierto de liquen. Fuimos a la oficina de los peregrinos para conseguir las compostelas, los certificados oficiales que documentan la indulgencia de Jaime por haber caminado a verle. La cola estaba bastante larga, esperamos una hora hasta que una señora inglesa y amable me pidió ver las credenciales y escribió mi nombre (en latín) en el certificado.

Con los documentos en las manos, fuimos a encontrar el hotel de emergencia que resultó una pensión básica, bonita y céntrica. Salimos para comprar unos postales, lo disfrutamos el sentimiento de ligereza que venía de no llevar la mochila, después buscamos la cola de abrazar un santo.

2010 es un año santo, porque el día de Santiago cae en un domingo, el próximo será 2021. Los años santos son un buen negocio para la catedral, hay un portal (que se llaman la puerta santa, con una imaginación impresionante) que esta cerrado con ladrillos en otros años. Igual que en Roma, la se abran para el año santo y dan indulgencias a los que entran (son diferentes a nuestras indulgencias certificadas con que nos dan una pizza gratis en el vaticano, pienso, que sé yo, no estudiamos el catecismo en la escuela). Por eso la cola es normalmente muy larga. Hicimos cola.

Entras detrás del altar principal, la puerta santa es solo para abrazar el santo, si quieres ir a misa hay otra cola. Entras una puerta pequeña en la parte de atrás del altar dorado, subes por unas escaleras hasta que estas detrás de la estatua de Santo Jaime, y en nuestro caso, estas mirando a la espalda del obispo de no sé donde mientras el esta celebrando la misa para mucha gente.  La gente abraza la estatua desde atrás (como si fuera un juego de ¿quién es?). Liz, que se apunta a todo, y tener experiencia de Roma, le abrazó.  Me abstuve de darle a el unas palmaditas en la cabeza y le pase. Después te dirigen debajo del altar para que pases por la tumba de Santiago, o mas bien dicho la caja en que quedan sus restos (o aun mejor dicho la caja que contiene unos restos que se afirman son del santo Jaime). Era un hombre pequeño, o no queda mucho de el. Después afuera en la luz calurosa y lo único que nos queda es encontrar un lugar para comer y decidir que visitar en los dos días siguientes.

En castellano I was shaken awake by someone. It was still dark, Julio and Liz had not been sleeping particularly well (the symphony of the wild boars, they said… ¡vaya jabalís!) I suppose in a sportshall with a hundred and some other folk you’re bound to get some world-class snorage. Julio in particular didn’t want to hang around. I don’t blame him, it wasn’t the most pleasant place to lie awake. Liz took my head torch  and proceded to blind first herself and then me while getting her gear together. We tried not to giggle, not wanting to wake the others up. We weren’t the first to move, there were a dozen or so head torches bobbing up and down in the dark.

Early? Stupid O'clock!

It wasn’t until we emerged from the fug of a couple of hundred pilgrims that I noticed it was still pitch black outside. Then I looked at my watch.

It was 4:45am.

Julio was keen to get ahead of ‘los chinos’ but this seemed to be taking it a bit too far. Still, the clouds cleared and we had a fine view of the stars as we walked. I turned off my head torch and let my eyes become accustomed to the dark, the moon was half full and  provided plenty of light to walk by. Until we passed a group of early risers with head torches on who insisted on looking at the faces of everyone coming past i.e. us. And then until Julio decied to shine his torch in my face too… a conspiracy. By the time my eyes had dark adapted properly once again the clouds had come over and astronomy time was over.

We crossed and re crossed a main road, the path rising away from it to crest a hill in a straight line before descending to meet the road again. In among the trees the darkness was total. We passed a couple of people in sleeping bags at the side of the path, lowering our voices so as not to wake them.

Always darkest before the dawn? No, it's a little bit lighter than before...

A strange series of poles and lights signalled the airport. No planes this early but there were a few helicopters lit up on their landing pads. Even at this early hour we were not alone. As it got a little lighter we passed a bar, just open by the look of it, and decided to stop for breakfast. It was 7am. Julio was keen to keep going… he didn’t say so, but he hum’d and hah’d and looked at his watch… getting to the next albergue ahead of the Koreans had become a little bit of an obsession. We didn’t really mind about the Koreans but we really needed coffee. It’s one thing to walk all day after breakfast… but another thing entirely to walk a long way beforehand.

The bar had indeed just opened. A woman took our order for coffees and pastries while seeming half asleep. We ate and drank and watched other groups arrive, all of them stopping for breakfast. Most of them, I would guess, would be continuing on to Santiago that day. We were going to stop in Monte de Gozo. At the front of the queue.

It was humid, and our path rose steadily. It began to drizzle a little bit (the only rain we had that week). We passed TV studios and repeater towers, so we thought we must be just about there but the albergue stubbornly refused to appear on the long straight road. A can of coke from a vending machine chained to the gate of a garden centre gave us a bit more energy and we rounded the first corner for what seemed like ages to see a sign pointing to the albergue.

It was still a good kilometre away mind. But Julio was off, determined not to let “los chinos” get the better of him.

Looking for "los chinos"

Monte de Gozo means mount of joy. It is so called because it’s the first point on the camino from which you can see Santiago. You can’t see much of the city, certainly not more than a couple of spires of the cathedral. At the high point there’s a sculpture which was put up to celebrate JPII coming to Santiago in 1989. He didn’t do the camino, the wimp (albeit a 70 year-old wimp at the time). The sculpture has four large metal bas reliefs on each side, one of them looked like the pope about to push saint Jimmy over a railing, there’s modern art for you.

Below the chapel and the sculpture is the albergue. It’s part of a holiday complex which appears to be modelled on a POW camp, or maybe that’s the effect of the depressingly grey Galician granite.

We were the first to arrive. Julio had to restrain himself from doing a little jig, that’ll show those chinese, he said. We asked what time the albergue opened, one o’clock, they said. I got my book out, it was 8:15am.

Because it was a holiday complex, there were shops and cafes so we took turns to go for second breakfast (I am a firm believer in that hobbit tradition, especially when you get up at ungodly o’clock). Other pilgrims arrived and the queue of rucksacks grew. No Chinese or Koreans appeared.

The default position at Monte de Gozo... resting in the sun.

The albergue is enormous, four or six buildings, 400 places (800 are available if necessary) so we could have arrived at 9pm and got a place but after the rather longer day than planned the previous day, it was a real pleasure to not walk. Liz and I had our books to read and the sun came out making it a very pleasant morning.

We dumped our stuff in our assigned room and showered and washed clothes. We left them baking in the sun while we went to a local restaurant for a 7 euro menu of the day. The rest of the day involved doing very very little, wandering down to the cafe and back, having a beer, people watching, in short, relaxing.

Castellano Alguien me sacudió para despertarme. Todavía estaba oscuro, Julio y Liz no habían dormido bien (gracias a la sinfonía de los jabalís) supongo que en un polideportivo con unos ciento y algo otros sea normal tener los que roncan de fama mundial. Julio, sobre todo, no quiso permanecer así, yo estaba de acuerdo con el, no estaba el lugar mas bonito para estar sin poder dormir. Liz cogió mi linterna frontal con que se deslumbró primero y luego a mi mientras ella estaba recogiendo la mochila, intentamos contener las risitas para evitar que despertemos la gente. No éramos los primeros despiertos, había mas o menos una docena de linternas frontales que se movían en el oscuro.

Una vez que salimos del aire sofocante del polideportivo me fijé que todavía estaba oscura, miré a mi reloj. Eran las 4:45.

Julio tenía ganas de llegar antes de “los chinos” pero esto parece un poco exagerado. Pues bueno, el cielo se despejó y nos permitía una vista de las estrellas mientras caminábamos. Apagué mi linterna y daba a mis ojos tiempo para estar acostumbrados a la oscuridad, había media luna que daba suficiente luz para andar. Hasta que pasamos por un grupo de madrugadores que llevaba linternas frontales y que miraba a las caras de todos que lo pasaban, y hasta que Julio me alumbró la linterna suya… ¡qué conspiración! Cuando mis ojos estaban acostumbrados a la oscuridad, estaba nublado y la hora de astronomía se acabó.

Cruzábamos unas veces una carretera, el camino subía desde el asfalto para llegar a la cumbre de una colina en una linea recta y después bajaba hasta la carretera otra vez. Entre los arboles la oscuridad estaba total. Pasamos unas personas que dormían en sacos al lado del camino, hablábamos en voces bajas para no despertarlos.

Pasábamos por unos postes y luces del aeropuerto, no había aviones tan temprano pero había unos helicópteros iluminados en los plataformas de aterrizaje. Aun que era temprano no caminábamos solos. Un poco antes del amanecer encontramos un bar que parecía abierto, decidimos desayunar. Eran las 7h, Julio tenía ganas de continuar, no nos dijo así pero nos indicaba hesitación y miraba al reloj, llegar al próximo albergue antes de los coreanos se había convertido en una pequeña manía. Nos daba igual sobre los coreanos pero nos faltaba el café. Caminar todo el día después del desayuno es una cosa, caminar mucho antes del desayuno es otra cosa en total.

El bar acababa de abrir, la camarera nos atendió medio dormida. Desayunábamos con cafe y bollería y miraban mas grupos llegando. Todos pararon para desayunar, la mayoría supongo iría a Santiago aquel día. Ibamos a parar en Monte de Gozo, en la cabeza de la cola.

Había humedad, el camino subía constantemente, empezó lloviznar un poco (la única lluvia de la semana). Pasamos por unos edificios y repetidores de televisión, por eso pensábamos que casi habíamos llegado pero el albergue no apareció en la carretera larga y recta. Compramos una lata de coca-cola de una maquina expendedora encadenado a una verja de un centro de jardinería, esta nos dio un poco más energía. Al doblar la primera esquina después de un buen rato, vimos un señal que nos indicaba al albergue.

Nos quedaba un kilometro largo, Julio marchó, estaba decidido a quedar encima de “los chinos”.

Monte de Gozo se llama así porque es el primer lugar en el camino desde donde es posible ver la ciudad de Santiago. No es posible ver mucho de la ciudad, desde luego no mucho más que las agujas de la catedral. En el punto más alto hay una escultura que se construyeron para conmemorar la visita del papa (JPII) a Santiago en 1989. El no hizo el camino, que flojo (aunque un flojo de 70 años en aquel momento). La escultura tiene cuatro bajorrelieves, uno parecía como si el papa estuviera al punto de empujar al Santo Jaime por encima de la barandilla de un balcón, eso es el arte moderno.

El albergue esta debajo de la capilla y la escultura, forma una parte de un complejo de vacaciones que parece basado en un campo de detención, quizás por el efecto del granito lúgubre de Galicia.

Llegamos primeros. Julio parecía si quisiera hacer aspavientos –vencimos a los chinos, el dijo. Preguntamos a que hora se abriría el albergue, a la una dijeron, saque mi libro, eran las 8:15.

Porque era un complejo de vacaciones había tiendas y cafés, nos turnamos ir a tomar el “segundo desayuno” (soy un partidario de la tradición de los hobbits, sobre todo cuanto se levanta a una hora intempestiva). Mas peregrinos llegaban y la cola de las mochilas se extendía. No apareció ningún chino ni coreano.

El albergue es enorme, tiene cuatro o seis edificios, sitio para 400 (800 si sea necesario) entonces pudiésemos haber llegado a las 21h y cogiésemos sitio, pero tras el día anterior mas larga que habíamos esperado era un placer no caminar. Teníamos nuestros libros y salió el sol que hacía una mañana agradable.

Dejamos las mochilas en el dormitorio nuestro, nos duchamos y lavamos la ropa que dejamos secando en el sol cuando salimos a comer en un restaurante muy cerca, comimos el menú de 7€. El resto del día hicimos muy poco, dimos unas vueltas, tomamos unas cervezas, miramos a la gente, en resumen, descansamos.

En Castellano

So 34km was not the plan for today. It just sort of happened by accident.

Early sun, long shadows

The first stirrings in the sports hall were at 4:30am. I slept on, oblivious, but Liz and Julio, earplugless, were treated to the noises of those early risers aiming for a bed in the next albergue. We got our stuff together at 7:30 and went in search of breakfast. In the bar, over coffee, toast and jam the waiter asked us if we were coming or going. People were arriving that early, no wonder the albergues were full. As we strolled along the cobbled streets of Melide, the sun was just lighting the tops of the buildings. A big procession of pilgrims, led by a man carrying a tall thin crucifix went past.

A busy Galician bar for coffee

It felt uttery different, walking as part of a stream of people. We overtook some, were overtaken by others, moved to the side of the path to let the bike riders go by. We caught up to the big group as they waited for their members to all get the credentials stamped in a church. We passed smaller groups led by priests doing the rosary as they walked. This was no longer our camino, the lonely primitivo, the solo walking from bar to bar, this was proper pilgrimming, or so I thought, until I noticed they only had tiny daysacks.

We heard more international voices too, passing a French couple with a baby in a backpack singing children’s songs as they went. We heard German and Dutch, Portugese and Italian. Not so much English though. We stopped for coffee after a couple of hours of walking on dusty paths through eucalyptus woods. The barman was fairly chatty for a Galician. He talked about the unreliable distance markers and how most people don’t really do a proper pilgrimage, for every 100km he reckoned the majority walk less than 20km.

Liz taking her coffee "corrected" with orujo

After 14.5km we entered Azúa, our original destination, where we thought we’d book in the albergue, or the sports hall, and let our feet recover. Long days in the heat mean my feet suffer. The soles and the tips of my smaller toes especially. I was limping a little, not like some of the walking wounded we had seen in the sports hall the night before but still, enough to want an easy day. We arrived at 11am and the queue for the Albergue stretched a long way. We counted, 46 places in the building and 70 pilgrims waiting. Julio muttered something about los chinos, refering to some korean walkers at the head of the queue, and how they must have walked through the night to get there that early. So? We said.

He went off to see about the sports hall and came back saying that the youth pilgrimmage had booked the whole place but they were opening another hall at 4pm if we wanted to wait. We called a few hotels but they were all full too. Then we had a round of What shall we do? What do you want to do? I don’t mind, what would you prefer? Well I’m happy to walk or to stay, what would you like to do? Until Liz took the lead and actually stated a preference. Let’s keep going. How far is it?

So we had a quick beer and set off. We needed the beer because there were another 19km.

More dusty paths and eucalyptus. And corn, lots of corn fields. We stopped at small walkers bar and had bacon and egg butties for lunch and watched a group on horseback go by. The group leader wore a bright yellow t shirt, a wide back support like a cummerbund, and a wide-brimmed hat like some US cavalry officer. The two others following were hatless and red.

Another 6km and we stopped for a coffee, because this is meant to be enjoyable after all.

In the shadows of eucalyptus trees we stopped at Santa Irene to confirm that the albegues there were full. They were. So we decided to call ahead to Santiago and book rooms for the Friday night, becuase we were a day ahead of schedule. We had picked up a flyer for a small hotel from the floor, luckily dropped or lost by another pilgrim (all of our numbers were in the lost guide book) and they had room so we instantly felt a little better.

The popular end, difficult to score in

Julio ensuring he has evidence of his hardships

We walked into Pedrouzo (confusingly it also seems to be called Arca) at 7 and on tired legs walked up to the sports centre. The youth were all in the outdoor football pitch and we were directed to the sports hall where they apologised for not having mattresses. No bother, thanks to thermarests. The sports hall was hot, it looked like a tidy, non-screwed-up version of the superdome post-Katrina. We bagged a spot and unfurled.

Beds sorted, we went out for food, passing the youth gathering on a hill for what looked like a hectoring homily from the local bishop as part of an open air mass, becuase that’s what young people need, advice about marriage and relationships from a supposedly celibate sixy-year old. We followed the directions from the lady at the pharmacy (doing a roaring trade in Compeed) to a place that did good octopus. She was spot on. They did fantastic octopus, accompanied by a really good crisp white wine.

Three up, four down...

Back at the field hospital (lots of limpers, foot inspections, saddle sores) I made my buff into a blindfold, put in the earplugs and dozed off.

Si alguien pudiera hacer unas correcciones si he cometido errores grandes estaría agradecido Pues, el plan de hoy no era 34km, lo pasó sin querer.

La gente en el polideportivo empezaron levantarse a las 4:30 de la mañana. Sigue durmiendo pero Liz y Julio, sin tapones, tuvieron que escuchar a los ruidos de los que se levantaban pronto con la intención de coger sitio en el próximo albergue. Arreglamos nuestras cosas a las 7:30 y salimos en busca del desayuno. En el bar, mientras tomábamos el café y pan tostado con mermelada, el camarero nos preguntó si veníamos o íbamos, la gente llegaba tan temprano, no me extrañó que los albergues estaban a tope. El sol iluminaba las partes mas altas de los techos mientras caminamos tranquilamente por las calles adoquinadas de Melide. Un gran desfile de los peregrinos nos pasó encabezado por un hombre que llevaba un crucifijo alto y fino.

Caminar con un flujo de gente era distinto. Los adelantamos algunos, nos adelantaron otros, los dejamos pasar algunos en bici. Alcanzamos el grupo grande mientras esperaban para el cuño en una iglesia. Pasamos unos grupos mas pequeños encabezados por curas, rezaban el rosario mientras caminaban. Ya no era nuestro camino, el primitivo aislado, en lo que caminábamos solos de un bar a otro, esto era una peregrinación correcto, o eso pensaba yo hasta que los vi que llevaban pequeñas mochilas suficiente para un día solo.

Oímos voces mas internacionales también, pasamos una pareja francesa que llevaban un bebe en la mochila, cantaban canciones de niños mientras caminaban. Oímos el alemán, el holandés, el portugués y el italiano, pero no mucho del inglés. Después de un par de horas caminando por bosques de eucalipto hicimos una parada para tomar un cafe. El del bar hablaba mucho por ser gallego, el hablaba sobre los mojones poco fiables, y como la mayoría de la gente no hace correctamente la peregrinación, nos dijo que para cada 100km la mayoría camina menos de 20km. Después de 14,5km entramos en Azúa, nuestro destino original, en donde pensábamos que nos quedaríamos en el albergue o el polideportivo y los dejaríamos recuperar los pies. Sufren mis pies con los días largos, sobre todo las plantas y los dedos mas pequeños. Yo cojeaba un poco, no tanto como algunos de “los heridos ambulatorios” pero suficientemente para desear un día fácil. Llegamos a las 11h y la cola para el albergue ya era larga, los contamos 70 peregrinos esperando a las 46 plazas en el albergue. Julio habló entre dientes algo sobre los chinos en referencia a unos caminantes coreanos encabezando la cola, dijo que deben haber andado por la noche para llegar tan pronto. ¿Y? lo dijimos.

Se fue para obtener información sobre el polideportivo y volvió diciendo que los peregrinos jóvenes habían reservado todos los sitios pero iban a abrir otro pabellón a las 16h si querríamos esperar. Llamamos a algunos pensiones pero estaban también completos. Así que nos dijimos entre nosotros ¿Qué hacemos? ¿Qué quieres hacer tú? ¿Me da igual, qué prefieres tú? ¿No importa si caminemos o nos quedemos, qué quieres hacer tú? Hasta que Liz tomó la iniciativa y nos dijo ¡Vamos! ¿son cuantos kilómetros?

Así que tomamos unas cañas y nos marchamos. Las cañas eran necesarias porque nos quedaban unos 19km.

Pasamos por mas caminos polvorosos y bosques de eucalipto, y maíz, muchos campos de maíz. Nos paramos en un bar de peregrinos y comimos bocadillos de lomo y huevos fritos, miramos a un grupo en caballo que nos pasaban. El líder del grupo llevaba una camiseta amarilla viva, una faja lumbar grande y un sombrero como los oficiales de la antigua caballería estadounidense. Los dos siguientes no llevaban sombreros y tenían cabezas rojas.

Después de 6km mas tomamos un café porque después de todo este camino debería ser divertido.

Entre las sombras de los eucaliptos nos paramos en Santa Irene para confirmar que los albergues allí estaban completos. Estaban así entonces decidimos llamar a Santiago y reservar unas habitaciones para la noche del viernes porque estábamos adelantos del programa por un día. Habíamos encontrado un folleto de una pensión en el suelo, dejado allí por suerte, por otro peregrino (todos nuestros números del teléfono habían estado en la guía perdida). Había sitio en la pensión así que nos sentimos inmediatamente un poco mas animados.

Entramos caminando en Pedrouzo (aparentemente se llama Arca también) a las 19h y subimos con las piernas cansadas hasta el polideportivo. Los jóvenes se quedaban en un pabellón al aire libre y nos indicaron al polideportivo donde se disculparon con nosotros por no tener colchonetas disponibles. No nos importaba gracias a los “Thermarest”. Hacía un calor adentro el polideportivo, parecía si fuese una versión no jodida del “Superdome”  después del huracán Katrina. Cogimos nuestro sitio y desplegamos los sacos.

Con camas arregladas, salimos para cenar, pasamos los jóvenes que estaban reuniendo en un montículo para recibir una homilía intimidada (porque esta es lo que necesitan los jóvenes, los consejos sobre el matrimonio y las relaciones de un hombre célibe que tiene 60 años). Seguimos las direcciones de la señora de la farmacia (que hacía su agosto vender Compeed) hasta un lugar en que cocinan un buen pulpo, tuvo razón, la señora, el pulpo era optimo y era acompañado por un vino blanco seco.

De nuevo en el “hospital de campaña” (muchos cojos, inspecciones de pies, lesiones de sillín) se convertí mi buff en una venda, me puse los tapones y me quedé frito.

Tombs for one, or granaries

En castellano

It dawned fresh on the crossroads and we headed to the bar for the breakfast of champions. Unfortunately this is Spain so we settled for Madeleines (well Julio and Liz did, I opted for pre-packed sugary doughnuts). A lady from the hotel drove us back to our spot in a big old wobbly estate car that juddered from side to side independently of the camber on the road.

The plan for the day was to walk to Merlán. We had stopped planning in detail thanks to the loss of the guide book so we were relying on a leaflet we had picked up the previous day in the parish of San Lazaro. We didn’t actually know if there was an albergue in Merlán but the second part of the plan was to walk until we came to somewhere to eat or to stay.

So we walked, passing through tiny villages and one-house hamlets and hórreos. In Galicia the hórreos are stone built, with either air bricks or wooden slats in the side, they look like individual sized tombs (I guess you could stack four in if you tried). We stopped facing one as a couple of old ladies paced slowly past. We asked if there had been many pilgrims along today. ¡Ay muchos! Muchos, they replied.

From Lugo to A Coruña en llanto

While we were sitting there another woman came past with a big tub of milk which she proceeded to feed to a calf in a building we had thought deserted. We exchanged pleasantries –Life in the countryside is hard, she said, lots of work, up early, hard work. We made sympathetic noises.

We kept going, hoping for a bar to top up in. Nothing. We talked to one woman who pointed us towards the casa de remedios (basically a private house in which they will sell stuff to pilgrims) but when we got there no one answered Julio’s increasingly despairing cries of !Oiga¡ ¡Hay alguien! and ¡Remedios! (Hellooooo! Anybody there! Foooooood!) One old boy said that we’d find a bar in Seixas. At that point we realised we were in Merlán and we would be walking much further than we thought. In Seixas there was an albergue rather than a bar. Julio and Liz had pulled ahead of me (I was dawdling) and as I approached I could see that the albergue was new. So new in fact, that they were taking delivery of the beds. Great, I thought, we can stop here and have an easy day of it.

Summer rose

As I arrived Julio was enraged. He and Liz had poked their heads in the door to see what was what and the warden had rushed out screeching for them to get out and that the albergue wasn’t open until one and they mustn’t come in. It takes a lot for Liz to say anything bad about anyone, but she said the woman had been really rude. So we filled our water bottles and decided to keep going. Melide became our next stop, and judging from our found map, there were still 6km to go before we had a chance of finding anything to eat.

I practice my stiff-armed penguin waddle

The path rose towards the Hospital of Seixias (basically the old word for a pilgrim’s rest stop) which was just below a col on a hillside filled with heather and windmills. No bar though. We crossed the border between Lugo and A Coruña at the col and started down. The day was heating up, Julio was complaining about being en yanto, which he explained as equivalent to running on empty but literally means to be on the rims of your wheels (after say, a puncture). He pinched a couple of apples and plums from a tree overhanging the road. The plums were inedibly tart, the apples bitter. I was glad of my doughnut choice in the morning.

We passed another village, asking anyone we met where the nearest bar was. We got differing answers but they all pointed downhill. A chap in a car said we’d find a bar in Vilamor which was 3km ahead. We reached it and gratefully cooled ourselves under a fountain. No bar. We continued and an old boy came out of his house and said another coulple of kilometres, at the end of the village. The vilage was about 3km long. Most annoying. Well eventually (at about 4:30) we got to the bar Carburo and asked what they had. The owner said something about a plato combinado with steak and salad and chips and we said yes. Plus wine and soda. Most welcome, although we sat outside so we were accompanied by significant numbers of flies.

So do they measure the 2cm from the end or the middle?

The steak was big and tender, the chips abundant, the wine homemade, but good, the post prandial snifter of orujo possibly unwise.

The sign on the wall said 55km to Santiago (5km to Melide) but the stone markers we’d been following said 60. Well actually the marker (el mojón) twenty metres up the street said 60.020. They seemed to go in for some serious precision, centimetre level precision. But lacking accuracy. Despite the discrepancy there were still 5km to Melide so we had to get moving, it was 5:45 when we left, there were unlikely to be places in the albergue but we’d just have to see what happened. We sweated past polytunnels filled with flowers until we entered a built up area.

Melide reminded Liz and me of the small towns in rural Argentina, the low rise buildings and the styles of frontage. Not surprising really given that, as the Irish to the US, the Galicians were to Argentina. So much so that pretty much any Spaniard is called a gallego in Argentina. The sounds of the Argentine accent seems to come from Galician too, the x in so many Galician words has lent itself to the sh pronunciation of  ‘ll’ and ‘y’.

Liz has had a little bit to drink at this point, and is happy that there's only 55km to go

Sure enough the albergue was full, so we were directed to the sports centre where we were lucky enough to get three of the last four beds (the people who came after us had to sleep on the floor). This was our first contact with the camino frances (the route that most people think of when they think Camino de Santiago). About 1% of pilgrims do the camino primitivo, that’s 2000 so far this year. 75% or more do the camino frances.

In addition to the normal August crowds, this week also included 12,000 young people doing a pilgrimage ending in Santiago on the following Sunday. They, fortunately, were staying in specially reserved sports halls. Our beds were in a walled off area within the sports hall. It was like a temporary military hospital, showers, toilets, dorms of 40 beds walled off. So we showered and marveled at our good fortune and then went out to eat cheese and pimientos de padron (fried green peppers) and drink galician white wine from much bigger porcelain cups than they use in Oviedo.

We strolled happily back to the bunks for the 10 o’clock closing time. I lay on the bed, put my earplugs in and fell asleep in seconds.

Si alguien pudiera hacer unas correcciones si he cometido errores grandes estaría agradecido

Hacía fresco el amanecer al cruce aquel y nos dirigimos al bar para tomar un desayuno de los campeones. Por desgracia este es España así que comimos magdalenas, así comieron Julio y Liz, tomé yo un dónut empaquetado y azucarado. Nos llevó al inicio de la ruta una mujer del hotel en un gran coche familiar que se bamboleaba independientemente de la inclinación de la carretera.

Ademas de la muchedumbre normal para agosto, esta semana hacían el camino 12.000 jóvenes terminando en Santiago el domingo siguiente. Afortunadamente quedaban en pabellones especiales. Las camas nuestras estaban en una área con paredes adentro del polideportivo. Era como un hospital militar con duchas, dormitorios para 40 personas detrás de las paredes. Duchamos y nos maravillamos con la suerte que tuvimos. Salimos para comer queso, pimientos de padrón y beber vino blanco de Galicia de tazas mucho mas grandes que las que utilicen en Oviedo.

Paseamos feliz a las literas antes de la hora de cerrar (las 22h). Me eché en la cama, puse los tapones y me dormí enseguida.

Waiting while we stamp

En castellano

We arrived in a different Lugo to the one we left at Easter. This one had sunshine, the roman walls looked warm rather than damp and cold, we were optimistic. That lasted until we got to the albergue (the pilgrim’s hostal). The plan, as explained by Julio, was to sleep in the albergue in Lugo, start early the next morning and spend the intervening afternoon exploring the city. The warden at the albergue asked where we had come from and the flaw in our plan was exposed.

There is a hierarchy of availability at the albergues. Available places are given first to those with disabilities, then to those who arrive walking, then on bikes, then on horseback, then those walking with support vehicles (ie the rucksack averse). The five hour bus ride from Oviedo was obviously a support vehicle, despite Julio’s insistence that we’d come on foot in April and that should count. The warden basically said come off it. Julio then tried to argue that in April we’d allowed some other pilgrim to take our place so by rights we were due a bed for the night. The warden called his boss who said come off it. Julio fumed, Liz and I shrugged and said let’s walk to the next albergue. How far is it? 18km. Umm okay, but let’s have lunch first.

We went back to a restaurant so that Julio could have another go at getting cocido gallego, but they weren’t doing it so we had to settle for green beans and chorizo and roast chicken. We skipped coffee, aiming to get some later en route.

Churches churches when what we need is a bar.

We left Lugo crossing the river Miño over what was called the roman bridge but was rather more recent. Along the riverside, we passed a cafe and popped in. The owner pegged Julio’s accent as Asturian almost immediately because his mother was from Mieres, there followed a brief argument about which Mieres, the town or the region. We sipped our coffee.

Galician achitecture

We passed a church which had a table set up outside with a stamp for our credentials so we paused in the shade and stamped away before hefting our packs and heading uphill through pine and nettle covered hills in the blazing sunshine (this far west the sun is overhead at about 2:30pm so it keeps getting hotter and hotter until about 6 or 7). We paused in a portico of another church and had some water, and discovered that we had left our photocopied guidebook in the restaurant, the photocopied guidebook that had phone numbers and stage descriptions and alternative accomodation, oops. Lugo was about 8km distant at this point, and we reasoned that we wouldn’t really need it. There would be places to stay, places to pick up information along the way. The paths are all well marked anyway, there was no danger of getting lost. So, onward.

We pressed on, the afternoon sun getting lower in the sky. One woman we passed said you’ll be walking in the dark, we smiled back like it was perfectly normal. Another hour another little bar. This one had a couple of quiet Galicians having their small glasses of wine after a day’s work. The bar was tiny, boasting old cigarrette adverts and posters of the Spanish football team hoisting the world cup aloft.

Walking west, into the sun

We arrived at the very pretty church of San Román de Retorta at around 8 and followed the sign to the albergue/bar where they informed us that it was full. Our fall back position was to call a local pensión that the barfolk recommended. They would come and pick us up, then in the morning drop us back at the same point. We called, they came. The pensión was called the cruz de la vega and was basically a garage/hotel/restaurant/shop on a big road junction. In the bar a group of young farmers were playing cards, two magazines prominently displayed behind the bar were ‘Trucks Monthly’ and ‘Galician Tractor Mgazine’. We asked if we could get something to eat and were directed to an enormous, almost empty dining room with late sunlight coming in horizontally. The waitress offered us the set menu but we declined, egg and chips for me, a plate of cheese and quince paste for Liz and Julio. And bread, Galician crusty bread, which is a delight. Service was slow, despite us being the only diners until one old boy shuffled in for a bowl of noodle soup. The temperature dropped as soon as the sun set, Tractor magazines held little attraction, so to bed.

The welcome sight of the church at San Román de Retorta

Llegamos en un Lugo distinto de lo que salimos durante la semana santa. En este Lugo hacía sol, las murallas romanas tenían un aspecto agradable en el lugar del frío o húmedo, teníamos optimista. La optimista nos llevó hasta que llegamos al albergue. El plan, como había explicado Julio, fue que íbamos a dormir en el albergue en Lugo, a empezar temprano la mañana siguiente y pasar la tarde intermedia paseando por la ciudad. El encargado del albergue nos pido desde donde habíamos venido y el error del plan se puso en evidencia.

Hay una jerarquía de disponibilidad en los albergues. Dan plazas en el primer lugar a los con discapacidades, en segundo a los que vienen andando, después los en bici, y en caballo, y después a los que van con vehículos de apoyo (los que no les gustan las mochilas). El viaje en autobús de cinco horas desde Oviedo es considerado como un vehículo de apoyo a pesar de la insistencia de Julio que habíamos venido a pie en abril que lo habría sido valido. El encargado dijo –no diga tonterías. Julio intentó de decir que porque nos habíamos dejado unas plazas a unos otros peregrinos que nos debía el albergue unas camas por la noche. El encargado llamó a su jefe que dijo –no diga tonterías. Julio estaba que echaba humo, nos encogimos los hombros y dijimos –pues nada, caminamos al albergue siguiente. ¿Cuantos kilómetros? 18. Vale, comeremos antes entonces.

Volvimos a un restaurante en que comimos antes para que Julio pudiera comer el cocido gallego otra vez, pero no lo había entonces tuvimos que comer judías con chorizo y pollo asado. No tomamos el cafe, con la intención de  tomarlo después en el camino.

Salimos de Lugo cruzando el río Miño por un puente que se llamaba el puente romano aun que pareció mas reciente. Anduvimos al lado del río, pasamos por un bar y entramos para tomar un café. El dueño se notó el acento de Julio como asturiano inmediatamente por que su madre era de Mieres. Hubo una discusión sobre cual Mieres, la ciudad o el concejo. Bebíamos el cafe a sorbos. Pasamos por una iglesia donde había una mesa con un cuño para sellar las credenciales por eso hicimos una pausa en la sombra y las sellamos antes de levantar las mochilas otra vez. Subimos tras pinos y colinas con ortigas, hacía un calor (aquí en el oeste el mediodía ocurre a las 14:30h así que la temperatura sube hasta las 18h o 19h). Hicimos otra pausa en un pórtico de una iglesia para tomar agua. Descubrimos que se lo habíamos dejado en el restaurante el libro de guía fotocopiado. El libro que contenía números teléfonos, descripciones de las etapas y alojamiento alternativo ¡ay! Lugo nos quedó a unos 8km lejos y pensábamos que no sería totalmente necesario. Habría lugares para pernoctar y lugares en que podríamos coger información en camino. El camino es buen señalizado y no había peligro de perdernos. Entonces ¡adelante!

Continuábamos, el sol de la tarde descendía. Pasamos una mujer que nos dijo que caminaríamos por la noche, reímos como si fuese perfectamente normal así. Una hora mas, otro bar pequeño. En este había dos gallegos reservados tomando unos vinitos después del trabajo del día. En el bar muy pequeño había publicidades para marcas de cigarrillos antiguos y carteles de la selección española levantando la copa mundial.

Llegamos a la iglesia bonita de San Román de Retorta a las 20h y seguimos la señal hasta el albergue/bar donde nos informaron que estaba completo. El plan secundario fue llamar a una pensión que nos recomendaron los del bar. Los de la pensión nos llevarían allí, por la mañana nos devolverían al mismo lugar. Llamamos, vinieron. La pensión se llamaba el cruce de la vega, era una gasolinera/hotel/restaurante/tienda situada en un cruce grande. En el bar una panda de chavales jugaban a cartas. En el bar exponíais las revistas “Camiones del mes” y “La revista de los tractores gallegos”. Pedimos para la cena y nos indicaron a un comedor grande y vacío en que entraba la luz horizontal de la muy tarde. La camarera nos ofreció el menú de la noche pero lo negamos. Huevos fritos y patatas para mi, un plato de queso y membrillo para Liz y Julio. Y pan, el pan crujiente de Galicia que es un gozo. El servicio estaba lento a pesar de ser nosotros los únicos en el comedor hasta que un viejo entró para la sopa de fideos. Bajó la temperatura cuando se puso el sol, no nos apetecen las revistas de los tractores, así que a la cama.

The view for most of the way

The last day of this section started earlier than planned. Liz was woken up in the middle of the night by some banging and howling outside. Some local yoot were up to no good. Julio got up and made sure the door was locked but Liz said the noise was a bit of a shock (I dozed on unaware, having left my mp3 player earbuds in to drown out the symphony of snoring that the six other chaps in the room were producing). The day dawned, cloudy but not raining, so we got everything together and set off as far as a bar round the corner for breakfast. A word about breakfast in Spain, it has as much importance here as The Star Spangled Banner has in Huddersfield, ie not a lot. Although the coffee is good, the accompanying squares of fairy cake (bizcocho), while pleasant enough, leave you with the sensation of not quite having prepared for the day. In the bar we were served two packaged cakes each, 8am is too early for the kitchens to be open in most places so the far more filling pinchos have to wait until later.

The main altar at Vilabade

In the ten minutes it took to eat it had started raining heavily. Stepping outside, I opened my umbrella to see that it had a couple of snapped spokes and a hole… it was a cheap one, but I hoped it would survive the day. We walked up the last uphill stretch for the time being and through yet more pine forests, this part of Spain is full of plantations serving a few paper mills, it’s pretty big business. The path was better today and we made good time. The rain stopped as we came down through Vilabade, where there was a big grey church which used to be part of a monastery. It reminded me of rural Ireland, mossy grey buildings and slate roofs and an overwhelming sense of catholicism. In Castroverde we stopped in a bar, where my rucksack became the departure point for the dozens of ants that had hitched a ride  from the albergue decided to make a dash for it. The sun came out, then went in again as we set off.

Only 5km to go, Liz takes a break, she's not dead.

We kept up a fine pace and didn’t feel particularly tired until the last 5k to Lugo (it was a longer day than the others, 30km) which was a pain. We had planned to eat in Lugo so we were running on empty (and energy bars). Lugo is on a hill but that hill is pretty small and surrounded by bigger hills so we didn’t see it until we crossed over the motorway. There had been some discussion about our plans. Julio had originally wanted to stay the night in Lugo and get the bus back the next evening, we had thought about getting the first bus out of Lugo and getting back to Oviedo as soon as we could. We eventually compromised and said we’d get the bus at 8:45 that evening. We headed to the albergue to dump our rucksacks, it was early, 3:30 so we were in time to eat. The chap in the albergue gave us a recommendation for where to eat and we did. Julio was determined to eat cocido gallego, which is a Galician stew, but nowhere served it while we were there so he had to content himself with knowing he could phone ahead for the next stage and pre-order.

Lugo in the rain, Julio's umbrella was as bad as mine

After lunch we took a stroll, it had started raining again, stronger this time and we took refuge in the cathedral. A warden noticed our muddy disheveled looks and came over to stamp our credentials. Then she offered to give us a tour of the cathedral, which is basically listing all the saints and virgins (I particularly liked Holy Mary of the big eyes) and a bit of the architectural history of the building. The rain had not stopped so we suggested to Julio that we get the earlier bus, leaving the town for the summer. Unfortunately there were no places left so we had to stick to our original plan and console ourselves with a wet walk on the roman wall. Lugo has an intact roman wall (originally with 85 towers) and I’m sure it’s lovely when the sun shines, but what I remember are the numerous houses with collapsed slate roofs, the damp and the moss and lichen growing on each wall. We killed time in a cake shop and then in a bar until the bus was due and then slept for the five hours back to Oviedo. The final part will be in the first week of August, it’ll probably rain then too.

Julio in the mist at the hospital chapel

I’d like to say that the next day started bright and sunny. I can’t though because it was more of the same, I put my umbrella up as we left the albergue. The other pilgrims had capes of various sizes and colours and everyone had the same ‘oh well, what can you do’ expressions. Breakfast was from the coffee machine in the albergue, when I say coffee machine I don’t mean a Gaggia, no, a Nestle special accompanied by a Kit Kat from the other machine. No matter, we thought, there’s a town just 8km away, we’ll have a late (or Spanish) breakfast in a bar there. More wandering through pine plantations and muddy tracks occasionally looking up to see if there was a view (not often) and then looking down to avoid the biggest deepest puddles and mud pits. The path follows the main road to Lugo but is a little more direct, which means there’s a steepish slog up to Montouto, a pass where there are the remains of old hospitals. I’m not sure why they put hospitals in these places, maybe to ensure that when people reached them they’d need hospitalizing. The hospital at Montouto dates back to the 14th century, founded by Pedro the cruel (great name, I can imagine it “Sire, what name will you be known by?” “Well, I think… ummm… cruel, yes Pedro the cruel… it’s got a certain ring to it no?” “Ummm….” “off with his head!”). We arrived in Paradavella hungry and ready for a coffee or something warming but had forgotten that it was Good Friday. The bars were shut. An old lady peered out of her doorway and looked anxiously at the three of us, Julio asked if there were any bars nearby. Four kilometres along the path. Ah well, a museli bar and a gulp of water would have to do for the time being. The path joined the road and then left it, joined it again and left it. Julio began saying phrases like ‘me cago en la puta que le parió’ (I crap on the whore that gave birth to him: quite strong language) when it became clear that the path went steeply down only to go steeply up later to rejoin the road.

Caldo, chorizo, pan, vino = happy

Finally we rounded a bend and saw a village, Julio, stomping ahead in the rain, turned and waved jubilantly. An open bar. We shucked our things and sat, it was only 12:30 but we were going to eat anyway, who knew when another bar would present itself? What have you got? we asked the old chap behind the bar. He indicated to the back, I’ll ask the boss. We’ve got caldo, he said. We nodded, caldo is good warming stuff. I can give you a chorizo too. Warm? we asked. He shook his head. It would do. We sat. His wife bustled out and said she’d make us a tortilla with chorizo. So pretty soon the table filled up, galician bread is thick and crusty, you could live on that and wine, and we set about the doorstops. The chap brought out wine in tankards, Julio asked for some soda (he likes his wine weak and fizzy) and the owner shook his head and said that wasn’t possible, you couldn’t do that to his wine. Good food, good caldo (according to the guidebooks they use grelos, which are turnip tops) good chorizo, good tortilla, acceptable wine. Then we asked for some cheese and the guy brought out a half round (about two kilo’s worth) and a knife and said have what you like. We finished with a coffee and an orujo (again, the bottle dumped on the table with a shrug). Replete, we asked for the bill, seven euros a piece. So full and happy we headed back into the gloom.

Happy walkers but wet

From this point on the Camino Primitivo is much less up and down, the paths improve a bit, less mud, more towns. We rolled into the albergue at O Cádabo at around 3:30 and had a little siesta. The houses in this part of Galicia are traditionally made or clad in pale grey granite which looks incredibly depressing in the rain. In fact, they use granite here as fenceposts instead of wood, probably because of the speed of rotting the damp climate would cause. We strolled around the town (took about five minutes) and decided on a place for dinner, ate and went to sleep.

waiting for tortilla

First of all we had to get back to where we had left off which meant a four-hour bus ride deep into Asturias. As we got near to Grandas, a group we assumed were pilgrims got on the bus… blatant cheating, but it had been snowing on the high pass and they claimed incipient hypothermia. What that meant though, was Julio became a little paranoid that there wouldn’t be any spare places in the albergue (the pilgrim’s refuge) so as soon as the bus stopped he was away, grabbing his rucksack and marching smartly towards the town hall. As it happened the three pilgrims were looking for a hotel, they wanted the extra heat and the chance to warm up. We found the albergue almost empty, a couple of guys from Galicia and a Frenchman, and a cyclist and his suspiciously clean bike. As ever, a place to eat was next on the list. We tried one bar in town where they said it was too early (8pm) and we’d have to wait. So we went to another where the guy said he’d ask his wife and gave us pinchos de chosco (a pressed ham that they do here which is rather good) while we waited. She brought us out a tortilla which was brilliant yellow with waxy soft potatoes, that we ate while the bar filled up ready for Barcelona v Arsenal on the telly. The only other entertainment in town seemed to be the ubiquitous protests about the head of the ethnographic museum being fired. We headed back to the albergue to sleep in the almost suffocating heat (the heating was turned up to ‘dry everything’).

not raining yet, but look at the lush green, it's just a matter of time

Next morning we walked away from Grandas and out of Asturias. There were a couple of villages left to pass before we made it to Galicia, but the buildings were already showing signs of Galician influence. There’s a lot of slate around there, and roofs are normally made of it, but with interlocking tops so that the stones can’t blow off in the wind. The weather forecast was not the most optimal for walking, predicting showers and snow down to 900m (our route over Holly Pass, el puerto del acebo was at 11oo or so. It hadn’t started raining at that point so we enjoyed the verdant rolling hills as we headed up the steep-ish climb.

Moss and slate giving a clue to the sunny climate...

We stopped for a rest in Penafonte, where there’s a quite impressive slate and granite church. Julio is keen on getting his pilgrim credentials (the piece of paper you need to demonstrate your journey and to let you use the albergues) stamped everywhere he can. At the moment there is a preponderance of bar stamps. This may be because of the local priest shortage. Although there are a lot of churches and chapels, it’s hard to find a priest when you want one. The

churches in these remote parts have services every few weeks if they’re lucky. As we left the shelter of the church porch it started raining.

The high point of the day found us walking under windmills which loomed suddenly from the mist. For the top kilometre we were in snow and sleet. Then we passed a small slate with the words Asturias | Galicia and that was that. We’d walked out of Asturias. The rest was downhill to the coast.

Liz thinks it's going to burn off

We walked on, descending though extensive pine plantations until we reached a hamlet. There was a bar but it was shut, looked like it never really opened. A few houses later on we asked someone and they said there was a restaurant just a bit further on. The restaurant was called the catro ventos (Galician for the four winds – quatro vientos). They say you eat well in Galicia, they’re not kidding. We had caldo gallego to start (Galician soup, which is basically stock with potatoes, beans and turnip leaves) and then I had a steak which filled a big plate (rather more than I expected seeing as the price was not much more that €6).

Some very fine tentacular action

As we got nearer to A Fonsagrada (a note on Galician names, A means La in Castillian Spanish, O is El, basically the Galicians couldn’t be bothered with the first consonants in the so A Fonsagrada means The sacred spring) Julio asked an old guy where the albergue was. He said there wasn’t one. The albergue is actually in a little village further on called Padrón. Sigh. We arrived, a little damp, and signed in. This albergue is run by the Protección  civíl and is a bit more than just one room. We had a room to ourselves and a lift back up to Fonsagrada to have a look at the town and to eat octopus. Many people have told us that the best octopus in Galicia can be found here (a long way from the coast). So even though we had eaten a reasonable lunch we tucked into a plate of pulpo which was at least as good as any I’ve had elsewhere in Spain.

I didn’t know much about Vigo. Truth be told, I still don’t. But here is a short summary of things we learned in the last week.

-The bus journey is long and easy and you go via the major cities in Asturias and Galicia (7.5 – 8 hours).

-You can get a clean comfy room in Hostal Las Cíes for €25 a night.

-Money saved on accommodation is well spent on food.

-The Guardian includes Rodas beach on Islas Cíes in its list of the top ten beaches in the world.

-The Guardian seems to be right (not having been to all of the beaches in the world for comparisons). The sand is smooth and soft, the water crystal clear (and chilly). The only way to get there is by boat, so it’s not too crowded.

-Nudists seem to be exclusively German. There’s a nudist beach there, open to the clothed too. Everyone who sported the bare look seemed to speak German.

-Jules Verne is immortalized on an octo-couch because Vigo is mentioned in 20,000 leagues under the sea.

-Galician food is rather nice.

-Octopus every day is a possible diet.

-You can have a good three course lunch, with wine, bread and coffee, for €8.

-A single cruise ship disgorging its English passengers is pretty obvious.

-We’ll return to this neck of the woods for a couple of reasons; one, the roads are being dug up all over the place, we want to see it when it’s finished; two, a few days camping on the islas Cíes will be a bit special.