Posts Tagged ‘walking’

After a rest day spent wandering round Santarém and sitting in the Porta do sol park lazily reading, gazing over the river Tejo below and watching tour groups we started with fresh legs. The route took us out of Santarém through the Porta do Sol park through the Porta do São Tiago, an old gate in the city walls, and down through woods as the sun peeked over the horizon.

Dawn over the Tejo

We took a slight detour to the train station and sure enough, the cafe was open so we had an early breakfast. After breakfast it was more vineyards and tomato fields and then corn fields. At about 11 we passed Vale da Figueira and had a coke stop. The village was gearing up for a fiesta, bunting all over, and it was decidedly picturesque, all the buildings pristine white against the deep blue sky.

As ever, the heat rose steadily. Mr B talked about heading towards a small copse and we fixed on that idea, planning to stop there for lunch under some trees. Unfortunately said copse continually failed to materialise, being instead repeated instances of stands of straggly trees offering no shade.

Liz bought a new hat in Santarém, it's a good hat...

Our new legs were beginning to feel like old legs (after 20km) and we saw a large olive tree at the side of the road and thought sod it, thermarests out and cake, biscuits and melon for lunch followed by a short siesta.

Unavoidable showers... I don't think they were doing pesticides...

Of course, 800m down the road we found not the copse but the next village, Azinhaga. This is where José Saramago was born, it’s tiny. We had ideas of stopping at the Casa Azinhaga (the swimming pool was big draw) but no one answered the door so we consoled ourselves by drinking lots of water from the fountain next to an unsettlingly oversized statue of Saramago in the village square (more of a triangle really, but shade and a drinking fountain are not to be sneezed at).

Faintly disturbed by the big José Saramago...

Then all that was left was the trudge along the side of the road into Golegã (the ã means that the a sounds like the a in cat, not the a in about). We succumbed to the heat and had another break in the shade, when a bend in the road meant that the shadow of the trees fell on a suitable place to sit. As we got up to do the last few kilometres Liz said, look, another pilgrim. Sure enough, behind us was a lone walker. Takashi is a French horn player in the Basel symphony orchestra.

The distraction of someone new to talk to made the last few kilometres easier, we got to Golegã and started thinking about where to stay. Golegã is a sleepy town except for two weeks in november when it’s the centre of the portuguese equestrian world. All the street signs and many of the shops have suitably horse themed signage.

We decided on the fire station for accommodation. Between Lisbon and Porto there are no dedicated pilgrim hostels (where you can usually stay for pennies, or free, or a donation). Instead you can ask for a bed, or a mattress on the floor at the Bombeiros Voluntários (the volunteer firefighters). Liz, being a fireman’s daughter, was all for this. Takashi thought it was good plan too. We followed the signs to the fire station and asked if there was a place to stay. A very tall fireman commanded us to wait. Five minutes later he led us to a big hall (why do fire stations need ballrooms?) filled with decorations and bunting in various states of preparation. The fireman explained (in slow Portuguese, which we could understand okay) that they were getting ready for a fiesta. He apologised for the mess and pointed us to a stack of mattresses.

All you really need for a good night's rest... a mattress and a roomful of bunting

Liz showing solidarity befitting a fireman's daughter...

After a shower and a short lie down we started thinking about food. The fireman pointed us to the place to eat. I asked what was good, locally. He thought for a second and said, meat. At the restaurant an older chap that Takashi had been talking to earlier decided to help us decoding the menu, Takashi speaks no Portuguese, and very little Spanish… our Spanish helps us to understand but speaking is rather different. Anyway, Roberto, the older chap, joined us for dinner, insisting that we have a good wine, of his choice… and it was a fantastic local Almeirim white. Liz had grilled local freshwater fish, I had stewed lamb (on the waiter’s suggestion), Takashi went for steak. During dinner Roberto was like the Portugal marketing board, suggesting, or rather stating without allowing for dissenting opinions, that Portugal had the best of everything. Even ham? we said. Well, he said, the ham may be spanish, but the pigs are portuguese. A fine meal.

Satisfied pilgrims and the Portuguese marketing board's most vocal representative.

The early morning had been so nice the day before that we decided to do it again, up and out by 6:20. The downside of this is that the cafes in the town were all shut but we consulted Mr Brierley (or at least his guide book) and he said that 5km away there was an aerodrome with a cafe. We wandered past fields full of tomatoes in various states of ripeness, being passed occasionally by cars and vans full of the people who would be picking them pretty soon. The flaw in our plan became apparent when we reached the aerodrome to find it completely shut. So, plan B, keep walking until we hit Reguengo and breakfast there. No problem, it was still cool and the walking was easy.

Nice and cool now, won't stay that way though

Reguengo is on the flood plain of the Rio Tejo. We hadn’t actually seen the river but according to the guidebook we were on its flood plains and it did flood with some regularity. This became apparent as we reached the tiny town. All of the houses, which were lining the one road, faced a four metre high dyke/levee/flood barrier. On the other side of this there were trees and fields and a park… way off in the distance, the river.We fell into the bar and ordered coffee and pastries. It was an old looking place, metallic bar, old coffee machine, ubiquitous TV high in the corner. The two barmen looked like father and son, the son looked in his sixties. We were subjected to curious looks but as we left a couple of Bem viagem’s were said.

The river is on the right, they say.

We walked past the brightly painted single story buildings and followed the flood barrier. Soon enough we entered another town, so we had second breakfast, which is allowed. The bar in this place was newer and busier. Liz headed off to look for some food for lunch (Mr B having warned us that there was a longish stretch with no shops or bars) while I sat on top of the flood barrier and adjusted the compeed on my feet (I blame the heat, and the fact that my feet are rubbish). At 11 we passed the last cafe until our destination so we stopped in and had a beer and some bacalao croquettes (they were like little dense cotton balls of coddy goodness). As we were dawdling over the beer, contemplating a second (it was hot), we chatted for a while with a guy from South Africa who lived close by.

We're in the shade, we have beer and bacalao, do we have to move?

Mr B said we left the asphalt and entered some “delightful sand tracks”. That’s probably true, if your definition of delightful is:- blisteringly hot, dusty and seemingly endless. We soon started looking for likely shady spots for a spot of lunch and a siesta. Eventually we found a stand of trees at the side of a field of tomatoes and settled on our thermarests. A couple of hours out of the sun.

Parasol...

siesta

We slowed down after lunch, Santarém, our destination, came into view but it’s on the top of a hill and it was a long way off. We had another couple of rests when we found shade but there was precious little of it. The tomatoes gave way to vines and we passed under the A13, glad to be back on tarmac. It was still a good 4km uphill to Santarém, Liz was flagging so we were not going to break any speed records. As we got to the town we passed a bar and gratefully chugged an ice-cold coke.

Mutant tomato provides diversion on the "delightful" sand tracks

The tourist information pointed us to a pensão (there were only two left in the town). After a bath (there was a bathtub, yay!) we went out for a shuffle around. It seemed deserted, or at least very quiet. There was a restaurant close to the hotel so we went there for their €7.50 menu. The waiter was very friendly, the food was simple grilled/barbecued fare, the wine was from the local Leziria vineyards… the following day was a day off… lovely.

Given the heat from the day before (and the fact that we’d fallen asleep at about 10pm, so very rock and, indeed, roll) we were up at 6:30 and on our way by ten to seven.

I'm thinking about the breakfast we're going to have soon

We retraced our steps and rejoined the camino, crossing over the railway line through a station, beyond which was an open cafe. So, breakfast then. As I mentioned bars/cafes seem to be primarily cake shops. Liz came out with a ham and cheese filled danish and a couple of pasteis de nata (basically custard tarts, but really really custardy and rather good).

A healthy breakfast is the basis of a good day

Suitably refuelled, we set off. The guidebook (John Brierley’s excellent Camino Portugués) had warned us that today would be a bit industrial and for the next couple of hours we were on the hard shoulder of the N10. We took a detour in Alhandra to avoid the traffic and we wound up on a riverside path that seemed pretty popular. That took us to Vilafranca de Xira where we admired the bullring and the tiles and the general impression that all of the buildings looked very similar to the ones we were familiar with in the non-Buenos Aires parts of Argentina. We popped into the (tiled of course) market and picked up a couple of bits to eat for later then paused in the main square.

Did you get the tiles in?

The next couple of hours were similarly industrial, the instructions included a Lidl as a waypoint and we turned down the back of a series of warehouses and industrial buildings along which ran a stinking ditch. Very pleasant. The temperature rose steadily, hats and suncream obligatory. We pushed on to a bar in Castanheira do Ribatejo arriving at around 11:30. Some of the workers from the nearby factories came in as we were having a cold beer and some crisps (it was a temptation to do an Ice-cold-in-alex on it but we resisted, slaking our thirst with water first). People seemed to eat much earlier here than in Spain but even for our English sensibilities it seemed a little early so we decided to carry on. The industrial areas disappeared and were replaced by fields of tomatoes. We kept being passed by lorries full of them.

We walked into Vila Nova da Rainha ready for food, although it took a few minutes searching to find a cafe which looked promising. The first one we saw had one old guy sitting outside looking about as welcoming as cholera. Fortunately down a side road Liz spotted a cafe which looked much more promising. Unfortunately it was full but our obvious desperation for food led the waitress to asking a couple on a table for four if we could join them. They were also pilgrims, but heading for Fatima (on the same route until the following day). We chatted and ate (I think what we had was called Jardineira… basically stew). The girl was American, the guy Italian, both living in Paris. They had done the camino Portugués from Porto to Santiago the year before. After a pleasant lunch we parted, our plan was to have an hour or two’s rest in the shade in a white tiled park we had passed a few hundred metres before, they were going to continue.

"Thermarests are just fantastic" – Liz

The last seven kilometres were a bit tough, along the N3 being passed by tomato laden lorries. The heat hadn’t really started dissipating yet so when we passed a garage and Liz spotted the all important Nestle sign we stopped for an ice lolly, dawdling.

I wonder where all those lorries with tomatoes go? Wait, do you smell spaghetti sauce?

We got to Azambuja at around six. It took half an hour of wandering and asking directions (and finding one pensão shut) before we found our place to sleep. It was above a cafe and there were three old chaps outside sitting around a table. As soon as he saw us, one of them stood up and rung the bell of the residencial (like a pensão but, um spelled differently). There was no response, our faces must have fallen because he basically said, no problem, wait here, I’ll be back in a moment. He toddled off across the street and came back with the keys, let us in (again no messing about with registering or passports) and took our money for the room.

After a shower we went for a stroll, okay more of a hobble/shuffle along the cobbles… pausing at a pharmacy to pick up some compeed. We ate at the cafe under the residencial, the cafe owner recommended the green bean soup so we had that and then some fish and rice and cold white wine. The cafe closed at 9. Once again we were asleep by 10.

Breakfast was included in the Pensão San João so we wandered up to the cathedral and collared a guy walking his kid to nursery to take a photo of us.

Liz: "I hope he didn't get all the drunks in the doorway in the shot"

Then back down to the restaurant behind the hostel for breakfast and then down through the narrow streets of old Lisbon following the yellow arrows at the base of the corners of buildings… or as Liz put it, just at dog-pissing height. The arrows led us through the Alfama and Graça districts to the Fado Museum. After that it was less touristy and the tiles became more cracked, the facades more crumbly, the cobbles less even and the pavements narrower. Until we reached the expo site, where everything was much newer and shinier. We stopped for an orange juice (it was 10k after all) and contemplated the Torre Vasco de Gama and the 17km long bridge just beyond.

A bit of a contrast to old Lisbon

Before long we were away from buildings and walking up a (rather smelly) river valley with planes going overhead every five minutes low enough to see people waving (okay, I might be exaggerating a little). It was hot. Which was not really a surprise, hot? In Portugal in August? Really? But it wasn’t suffocating, there was a breeze and we were heading for lunch. The guide book said that there was a place for lunch in a village called Granja a few hundred metres from the camino. so when we passed the small narrow bridge we crossed it and went to find food. The shady terrace was full, the inside less so. We made the usual internationally recognised signs for “we’d like to eat” and “can we sit here?” and the young waitress reeled off a list of what was on offer. I heard the word Bife so I plumped for that. We wanted cold white wine but there was none in the fridge so cold draught sangria had to do. It was so hot that we had to restrain ourselves from downing it in one. Beef and chips (and rice… chips and rice on the same plate, there’s something not quite right there) and salad and an hour’s rest and we were ready to brave the heat again.

So I guess we go that way then?

We walked through cornfields and bamboo, I picked up a nice little piece which was to be my stick for the camino. It got hotter, and we stopped in the shade of a bar for a cool drink. Only six more kilometres, but they got harder as the heat persisted and our pace slowed a bit. Accommodation was a kilometre’s detour from the camino in Verdelha de Baixo. It was the Restaurant Afaia, which also had rooms. We stumbled in and maybe we scared the barmaid because she just handed over the keys and didn’t bother with passports or registration or names… Shower and rest, then down for dinner where surprisingly, the restaurant was almost full. Then we realised Benfica were playing and 99% of the patrons were men. It was only 7:30, we’re used to Spanish dining, which is rather later. We had a plate of calamares and rice, a bit of white wine and watched the men watching Benfica. Afterwards we fell into bed and were asleep pretty much as soon as our heads hit the pillows.

Some of this bamboo stuff might make a good walking stick

After a night’s limited sleep on the floor in the airport in Madrid (my word but these Spanish can talk… and talk… and talk. and play football in the airport at 4am) and a quick easyjet flight, we found ourselves in Lisbon. We dropped our bags in the hostel/hotel/pensão we would be staying in that night and went for a wander. It was the first time in Portugal for both of us and we were both impressed. The old quarter of Lisbon is picturesque and well worth strolling around. In the afternoon we took one of the hop-on, hop-off bus tours, seeing as we were going to be walking around a fair bit the next few days.

I dunno Mister Eiffel, I think it could be more elaborate

Portuguese has always sounded like Russian to me, with lots of zh sounds. We were able to read pretty much everything and understand it but the minute people started talking it was a different matter. An unaccented a sounds like the a in acceptable (either one), the e disappears and the s, z and y (and rr and occasionally the r) all sound like the g in edge. Imagine Sean Connery speaking spanish with a russian accent… (shpeedboat).

I'm not sure olives constitute carbo-loading

We stopped in bars, which are really cake shops masquerading as bars/cafes, had something traditional for lunch (feiojada… a bean stew), wandered a bit more, avoided the restaurant hawkers in the tourist heavy hotspots, goggled at the trams and Eiffel-style elevator to the barrio alto and generally did the touristy stuff until dark. The real walking wouldn’t begin until the following day.

Eat here please, we have very good menu, very good price, eat here please...

This afternoon we’re going  to catch a bus for Madrid. After arriving at the airport and catching a few hours sleep, we’ll be on a plane heading for Lisbon. We’ve got a day for pootling around the city then it’s North on foot following the Camino de Santiago. We have no accommodation beyond the first night, no fixed plans on where we’ll reach, not much more than this really:

This is what I'll be taking, plus the clothes I'm wearing.

Liz has a similarly lightweight rucksack packed.

There will be a full travelogue if when we get back.

En castellano It wasn’t going exactly to plan.

We had left the coach, twelve hardy souls who were planning on doing Torrecerredo, at Sotres (880m), but the lowish cloud and the forecast scuppered the original idea of going up to the refugio Urriellu via the path to the South East and instead we opted to go the normal route via Pandébano (1212m) and past the collado vallejo (1540m). The weather was misty and drizzly and generally not the most pleasant but it eased off and we dried out a little, then on the last half hour pull up to the refugio (1953m) it came down again with a wet vengeance. We arrived at the refugio earlier than expected, wet through and dispirited.

So this was not the plan, not at all

After a few hours of sitting and waiting (and chatting and walking round keeping warm) it was time to eat and that raised spirits. The refugio has a capacity of about a hundred but given the poor conditions there was just us, a group of about thirty from Madrid and a smattering of other walkers and climbers. The food was okay, thin noodle soup followed by stewed lentils and then meatballs, when the pudding of fruit salad (can you call it a fruit salad if it’s just peaches and pears? I’m not sure) Ignacio commented that he hadn’t needed his fork, it was spoon spoon spoon then little spoon. There’s not much to do in these huts after dinner so we retired to the dormitory and slept.

A promising start

Dawn had actually brought the sun, or at least clear skies and after a less than hearty breakfast (biscuits, melba toast, butter, jam, cocoa) we set off up the Brecha de los Cazadores (hunter’s gap) (2300m or so), and on to the Jou de Cerredo (2400m or so).

Still on the way up, just past Hunter's Gap

The path is pretty well marked until you leave the normal hut-to-hut path and head for Torre Cerredo, then it’s a bit thinner, and you have to cross a few slabs. These would normally be no problem, but the previous night’s rain, combined with the freezing overnight temperatures meant that a lot of the rocks were coated with ice and were a mite slippy. A couple of the slabs were crossed entertainingly high, say, 20m above a rocky terrace. It’s a good job it’s grippy Spanish limestone and not the polished English stuff.

Delicacy on ice

We reached the base of the peak and agreed that the ice would make the ascent too dangerous (it’s a proper scramble, and you have to come down the same way). So we sat there and basked in the sun and had Eccles cakes (well Liz and I did, blimey they’re good, I wonder if we could introduce them here). A few people came down from the peak and reported that they hadn’t been able to go up because of the ice. So the right decision.

At the refugio de los cabrones

That just left the down. We descended steep paths to the refugio de los Cabrones (2060m) where we refilled water bottles and had a little peek at the cute 28 place hut, then a bit of a climb (more slabs, some cables, some old tatty rope in some parts) and then a long stoney path down through cloud to the Majada Amuesa (1386m). A majada is a high meadow, there were no cows though, only  vultures swooping and landing. Then a punishing descent over mud covered slippy rocks to Bulnes (647m) during which we were just thinking of a cold beer in one of the bars there. All that remained was the hour’s walk down from Bulnes to Poncebos (220m) to complete a long day.

No pasaba según lo planeado.

Habíamos bajado del autobús en la curvona de Sotres (880m) , doce fuertes quien pensaban en hacer el Torrecerredo pero las nubes bajas y el pronostico echó por tierra la idea de subir hasta el refugio de Urriellu por el camino del sureste y en su lugar elegimos a ir por el camino normal por Pandébano (1212m) y por el collado Vallejo (1540m). Hacía niebla con orbayu, un tiempo desagradable pero lo peor pasó y secamos un poco. Después, durante la ultima media hora subiendo hasta el refugio (1953m) llovió de nuevo de verdad. Llegamos al refugio mas temprano que esperábamos, empapados y desanimados.

Después de unas horas de sentarse y esperar (y charlar y pasearnos de un lado a otro para calentarnos) llegó la hora de cenar que nos animó. El refugio tiene la capacidad para alrededor de cien pero en tan malo tiempo había nosotros, un grupo de madrileños y unos pocos escaladores y excursionistas. La cena fue regular, una sopa de fideos, lentejas y después albóndigas, cuando llegó el postre de ensalada de frutas (no sé si es una ensalada de frutas si contiene solo peras y melocotones) Ignacio comento que no había usado el tenedor, sopa con cuchara, primer plato con cuchara, segundo, cuchara, postre, cucharita. No hay mucho para hacer en los refugios así que nos retiramos y nos acostamos.

Amaneció con sol, o por lo menos un cielo despejado entonces después un desayuno ligero (bizcochos, pan tostado, mantequilla, mermelada, colacao) salimos hacia la Brecha de los Cazadores (2300m más o menos) y después hasta el jou de Cerredo (2400m más o menos).

El camino es bien marcado hasta que sales del camino normal entre refugios y tiras para el Torre Cerredo, en este caso queda mas estrecho y tienes que cruzar por unas losas, normalmente no causarían ningún problema, pero después la lluvia y la temperatura baja de la noche anterior muchas de las rocas quedaban cubierta de hielo y resbaladizas. Cruzamos unas lozas con una altura entretenida, 20m encima de una terraza rocosa. Menos mal que es caliza española con adherencia no la inglesa pulida.

Llegamos al base del pico y decidimos que el hielo significó que la escalada sería demasiada peligrosa (hay que trepar, y tienes que bajar por la misma vía), así que nos sentimos y disfrutamos el sol, comimos “Eccles cakes” (un pastelito Inglés) (pues por lo menos Liz y yo comimos así, son buenos, me pregunto si podríamos introdulirlos aquí). Unas personas bajaban y nos dijeron que no habían sido capaz de subir por el hielo, entonces fue la decisión correcta.

Solo nos quedaba la bajada. Bajamos por senderos empinados hasta el refugio de los Cabrones (2060m) donde las cargamos las cantimploras y echamos una miradita al refugio guapo con solo 28 plazas, después, una subida (más losas, unos cables, una cuerda muy antigua y estropeada) y luego un sendero pedregoso tras las nubes hasta la Majada Amuesa(1386m). Luego un descenso duro por rocas que estuvieron cubiertas de barro hasta Bulnes (647m), durante que pensábamos solo de unas cervezas bien frías en un bar allí. Lo único que nos quedó fue el camino de una hora desde Bulnes hasta Poncebos (220m) para acabar un día largo.

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.