Posts Tagged ‘walking’

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.

We were looking at the river in Navia, after finishing a walk (the 23rd annual coastal walk), and Julio reminded me that this was the river we’d crossed on the Camino de Santiago to reach Grandas de Salime. An old chap sitting on a bench beside us chimed in and said that it was a damn shame. The river used to be one of the best in northern Spain for trout, salmon and eels, but ever since they built the dam it’s been rubbish.

An entirely unrelated encounter with an old chap, this one didn't mention politics

So far so much random old person “I can remember when all this was fields” but he immediately segued into “This country is nothing but a whorehouse, a badly governed one at that” at which point I smiled, the thought of a badly governed whorehouse being amusing. “What are you smiling at?” he asked. I was on the point of explaining when he decided he had asked a rhetorical question and carried on a blistering denunciation of Zapatero, immigrants, young people and everything else he thought was responsible, returning time and again to his “este pais es nada mas que una casa de putas.” I looked at Julio, he was nodding along respectfully (he is, to be truthful, an unreconstructed right wing working class chap, which is why I never talk politics with him). They then fell to talking about military service, and how it was the best time of their lives (it was like an episode of Alf Garnett). The old feller proudly said he had volunteered to join the military because it was the only way to defend the country at the time, this was a bit much even for Julio, who seemed a little taken aback. Then they compared how tough life was for each of their fathers, how they had to do any work they could, and how the youth of today didn’t know they were born, and the skirts they wear… well, it just aint right. Eventually we made our excuses and left, I think Julio felt he had been out-conservatived, so he was a bit subdued and made up for it by having a go at the Spanish national side (who he said he wants to lose) because according to him, the government have promoted them as La roja (The reds) even though the Spanish flag has yellow as well, it’s a socialist plot, just like the red army, he said. A stunned silence was the only response I could make.

Snow capped

Sunday’s walk was originally slated to start in León, but the last couple of weeks have been a bit cold and there’s been a bit of snow in the hills so the powers that be changed the route on Thursday. It had been raining in Asturias more or less constantly but on Sunday morning the skies cleared, the sun shone and the temperature went up. We started walking towards snow capped peaks through the new spring growth in the woods, I assume there was a feast of spring green but I could see about three distinct shades of green, bright, light and dark. I was chatting with Amaia and Ruben, it was their first time coming along with the group (Amaia is one of the people I give classes to, so naturally we have been talking about mountains and stuff) although they’re pretty experienced.

Nacho and Joaquim enjoy the steep snow

As ever in Asturias there’s a fair amount of up. Some folk go faster than others… I’m not one of the fastest, preferring to enjoy the scenery and not sweat like a very sweaty thing (in this I usually fail, but hey, points for trying no?). We reached a meadow where a couple of the others had stopped. Paco, one of the leaders, said that a few people had gone ahead to go up Peña Rueda. Nacho and Joaquim said they’d go too and I thought I’d go along seeing as Amia and Ruben were ahead as well. So we set off up the to the peak (thinking it was a valid alternative route). It was steep and snowy, but not icy so it wasn’t hard, apart from the steepness. It was about 600m of ascent in the snow and when we reached the top we had some fine views of the walls of hills that separate Asturias from the rest of Spain.

We had to hurry off the top, a couple of clouds were beginning to threaten. Julio (him of the salt and the navigational ‘adventures’) and Pepe marched off along a fine ridge. We stumbled along behind in the very soft snow, often up to our thighs. Excellent fun but tiring.

Julio, bad lad

We got below the snow and into a forest, still descending a 50 degree slope over wet leaves and slippy logs. I took a few tumbles but Julio had the best fall, rolling over three or four times before stopping thanks to a sturdy tree. It took a long time. Finally we reached the river at the bottom of the valley  but we had to go up again to bypass a gorge with sheer walls. I was beginning to regret doing the peak as we were now a little bit late.

Up and down, up and down in the woods until finally we reached an open field and saw a small path open up. Pepe had by this time disappeared ahead.

We got to the bar just as the others were starting to eat (the plan had been to have lunch at this bar, where they do a famously good rice pudding). It was 5:30, the descent had taken us four hours. We ate, drank and generally enjoyed the meal. Then I found out that what we had been doing hadn’t been an approved alternative at all and the president was a little put out with us (and rightly so given what I know now). I decided not to make my excuses and just apologised profusely (he said it was fine, and he was more annoyed at a couple of the others.) We felt terrible, Amaia and I discussed it outside, they felt embarrassed, but there was nothing they could have done about it, they didn’t know who was who. I had a raft of excuses but really I should have stayed with Paco (although I’m not sure how I could have known that at the time).

The easy way down

So, for future reference. Identify who the leaders are. Stick with the leaders. Always ask if there’s an official alternative. Never follow Julio.

Still, the peak was breathtakingly good, and the rice pudding was lovely.

Pepe wonders about mud and sun

As the weather improves, the chaps (and chapesses) in Grupo Naranco get more cheerful. The amounts of clothing, gaiters and umbrellas gets less and less, people stop scanning the sky as we head out on the bus, confident that it won’t be as grey as in the winter. Pepe works as a security guard up at the hospital and I bump into him most weeks on my way to or from the classes there. We say hello and wonder aloud if the next walk will be sunny or not, or if there’s finally going to be a walk without mud (it is an unwritten, and unspoken rule that all walks must contain a section on either a very muddy path or up or down a stream). It hasn’t happened so far.

Coming down

Sunday was forecast to be glorious, until Friday when the forecast changed to hazy, then cloudy. So far so normal for Asturias. Friday and Saturday had been balmy in the city so we had high hopes. We were heading to San Isidro, the ski station (I’d say resort but it’s not big enough… what do you use when it’s a place to ski but not really big enough for a holiday? Resort seems too grand) in León. We’d walk from there North into Asturias. As ever the landscape is stunning, patches of snow amongst the limestone and grass, with hundreds of tiny daffodils… a host? a hostess? We walked up to Peña de viento, and as we got to the top, as ever, the clouds covered everything north of us (ie everything in Asturias). We stopped for a snack and to watch the clouds coming up and over the peaks, enjoying the sunshine when it appeared.

Hulooooo

We descended on snow slopes rather than ankle snapping scree, enjoying the softness of the spring snow, where you can put your heel down hard and be sure of not slipping. All too soon we were below the snow, and the cloud, filling up water bottles with icy meltwater. We stopped in a meadow formed from moraine dam and ate empanada (basically a foccacia baked with chorizo and pork fat (Liz took the pork fat out of hers, I didn’t)). Then down a track for a couple of hours along the side of a big valley, passing high altitude bee hives and heather covered hills… and a couple of muddy sections. Just enough time for a shandy at the bottom before a snooze on the coach home.

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.

The papers were full of it, the news on TV said that fifty provinces in Spain were on High Alert.

“Xynthia will hit Asturias today” according to El Comercio, yesterday.

“The principality ask citizens to take measures to protect themselves before the arrival of the cyclone”

What measures are these, we asked? Well, close your windows, move your pot plants and pull your shutters down. Oh and we’re not going to do any rubbish collection so that we don’t have empty bins flying round. Oh and don’t go out in your car… and look at the red and yellow alerts… look! They’re Red! And Yellow!

They forecast 160km/h winds. We cancelled our plan to go to Gijón with Cova and Julio and try out a certain Mexican restaurant, which we had been looking forward to…

Instead we met at La Más Barata for some rice (which wasn’t bad (for which read bloomin’ gorgeous), chipirones (baby squid) and smoked cheese… which both Julio and I plumped for and devoured). Mexican food will have to wait.

All day on the news they were tracking the storm, which actually was causing severe damage almost everywhere else in the North of Spain. In Oviedo, it was a bit breezy. Fresh, you might say, a blowy evening in Greetland…

The storm blew over and upset the forecast for today too, which had been sunshine and showers, lots of showers. We woke up early to go out with the walking group and it was blue sky and a light breeze. That seemed to be it as far as the weather went. We were walking in Teverga, up to 1760m, so in snow for most of the walk (mud for the rest). Beautiful.

Stunning views, snowy ridge walk, sunshine, cup o’ tea at the top. You could not ask for more.

We finished in San Martín, taking over a hotel bar as we all had our sarnies. Once again I was struck by how ‘Irish’ the Asturians can be as Julio (not the same one) and Andrés argued over who was going to pay for what. I’d messed things up by paying for the wine, Julio had snuck in and paid for his coffee and some spirits which left Andrés complaining that there was nothing left for him to pay for ‘except the champagne’ until we kindly offered to let him buy us another round of spirits… a selfless act which led to Liz sleeping all the way home on the bus.

Julio had been trying to convince us to take it easy on the third day and get to Grandas a bit later. This would have meant missing the only bus back and having to wait until 3pm the following day for a bus. So we were reluctant. As it was, the weather had eased a little, and we decided to get going earlyish to take advantage of the lack of rain. This meant we left Berducedo before the bar had opened. Never mind, we thought, there’s going to be somewhere to get a coffee between here and there.

There wasn’t.


We passed La Mesa, a hamlet with 13 people, all asleep, stopping in the albergue there to see if there was a jar of nescafe or something similar.

No.

Then we climbed steeply up, into real north of England territory, smoother hills, heather and a fierce cold wind. The houses here have slate roofs and are a dark grey that wouldn’t look out of place in Kendal. At the top we could see our destination, Grandas de Salime. Doesn’t look too far, we thought, maybe 5km in a straight line. Then we saw a sign that said 14km. There was a long descent punctuated by plaintive cries for coffee…

It was stunning scenery, the hills are big, 1200m and steep sided, plunging to a man made lake before rising on the other side the same way. The path wandered through pine forest then oak and chestnut, so we had all of the colours of autumn. We descended as far as the dam that forms the lake, it’s a big piece of engineering and when you get up close you’re knackered from the descent, and it seems even more impressive.

We’d spotted a building as we were descending and Julio had said it was a bar (well he actually said to Enrique that we’d be there in 15 minutes, an hour and a half out… not too bad). So we were hoping to finally have our first coffee of the day at about 1pm. It wasn’t just closed, it was abandoned.


Enrique and Encarna decided to stop there for some butties and we said our farewells. We were hoping to make it to the town in time to have lunch before the bus back. Which we did after a strength-sapping 6km up the hill.

Grandas de Salime has 500 inhabitants, it’s the capital of the middle of the back of beyond nowhere. Still, it has a couple of rather nice restaurants, we blagged a table and in contrast to the majority of diners, who were in their Sunday best (although it was Monday), we piled rucksacks and sticks at the side of the table and set to eating. A chickpea stew followed by (merluza for Liz) slices of hand (I think that’s the name for the cut in English butchers, in Spanish codillo, which is little-elbow, basically the forearm). We ate heartily, there is no other word for it, and even had time for coffee before getting on the bus for a 3.5 hour drive back.

On which we were able to actually see some of the hills we’d walked over, unlike the day before.