6. Sarria
The twenty-sixth of September and I am foregoing the rest day in León. The departure from this beautiful city is mostly beside the not so beautiful N-120 which runs east-west across Spain and tracks the ancient camino route as both of these ways follow the older trading routes and Roman roads. With a 6:20 am start I am content ambling along, occasionally turning round to watch the sun's progress as it rises over the city.
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| An early start walking west out of León |
Though you can argue that the meseta continues beyond León, I have, emotionally at least, left the meseta behind me in León. Unlike any other walking I have done the meseta had drained me physically and emotionally. Physically, because there is nothing to slow you up on the undulating pathways where I am reminded of a walking race I completed many years ago. This race was eighty-four miles and you were allowed a full twenty-four hour day to complete it before you were timed out. My finish time was - from memory - 21 hours and 43 minutes. Well, it is the sort of thing you remember and I could remember the elation and adrenaline rush as I crossed the finish line at 07:43 am in the morning in thirteenth place, and the satisfaction when later that evening I hobbled up to the awards ceremony stage to collect my certificate. Though I would likely get a certificate at the end of this walk it would be a very different experience.
Sarria is the next major milestone as it is just over one hundred kilometres from Santiago. Sarria is the town where walking pilgrims start if they only have time for a short camino while still qualifying for the compostela; the grand paper certificate of completion. That last hundred kilometres is busier with the uplift in people due to those starting at Sarria, and with the finish line in sight the camino is said to take on a different feel. Though I only recently vowed to slow down, I am already anxious to get going and back into the hills as I approach the western reaches of the Camino Francés. The high-level outline maps in my guidebook which had started with green blotches signifying hills, and had then turned stubbornly beige for the flat meseta, are again filled with dollops of hilly green for the days to come.
It takes two and a half hours to clear León and on the outskirts I meet an Australian and together we work out how to take the scenic diversion which will allow us to avoid walking alongside the N-120 all the way to Hospital de Orbigo which would be twenty-one miles of the kind of soul destruction I am looking to avoid today. We eventually find the path using the time-honoured navigational technique of just walking bravely on and hoping to find a sign. Like so many camino encounters she was happy to tell an abridged version of her story which included a bad year and the camino was, like so many others, time for herself.
Moving on it is 10:00 am and I am at the small village of Chozas de Abajo. The local cafe owner has, I suspect, diverted the camino to pass conveniently in the front of his cafe as there is a distinctive kink in the path. This is quite common and usually to the benefit of the hungry footsore pilgrim. With no French group to provide a plan for the day I see I am only four kilometres from the normal stage end for today and I suspect I will walk on. It still seems slightly odd to walk with no fixed end point or a bed arranged for the night but I have fallen into that routine easily, happily walking until I am tired then looking for a bed. Walking out of Chozas de Abajo I can see hills in the distance and this spurs me on. After picking my way through the outskirts of Hospital de Orbigo I arrive at the magnificent bridge that leads me to the old part of town where I hope find accommodation.
The bridge at Hospital de Orbigo is home to a classic camino story. A noble knight had been scorned by a lady, so he threw down a challenge to any knight to try and cross the bridge that he was defending. This attracted so much interest that in just a month he had broken three hundred lances. His honour being restored he travelled on to Santiago de Compostela to offer his thanks to St. James. The bridge now has a jousting arena beside it on the flood plain and is still used for medieval re-enactments.
I check-in to an albergue run by a German confraternity. It is basic but very friendly and benefits from a quiet walled garden though the bunk beds are tightly packed into small chalets which look and feel like POW blocks. I've been allotted a bed for the night and am happy for that. I see the Korean taegum player and her husband are already here despite it being a thirty-five kilometre walk from León. Having attended to the shower and laundry routine I am back at the bridge when the young Italian man from some days ago passes with a cheery wave. I see him a lot as we walk the same mileage and though there is a solid language barrier the familiarity is somehow comforting after long days on the way. As I walk back over the Puente Orbigo (Orbigo bridge) away from the old town a South Korean film crew drive up in a minibus and minivan and screech to a halt in a cloud of dust. They are all action as they get the short segment they need, then they are in the vans again and off, presumably circling round to get to the old town on the other side of the pedestrian-only bridge as I see them later interviewing pilgrims back at the albergue.
The twenty-seventh of September and I start walking at 6:40 am knowing around one hour of walking in the dark lays ahead with no torch or headlamp which most of the sensible and prepared early morning walkers use. The signage is either sparse or I am just not seeing it and as the sun rises I am suddenly unsure of the way. I have been walking long enough now simply to turn my back to the sun in the east and walk to the west confidently and with a sense of purpose. Though this usually works I don't offer it as a firm recommendation. The first major stop is the city of Astorga which has the feel of a substantial market town with lots of Roman, military and trading history and I pause a while in the Plaza Mayor for a breakfast of water and apple. It is no surprise that I have lost weight and the shorts I bought with comfort in mind are now hanging off me and held up by a crude arrangement involving a strap from my rucksack. The square is quiet as it is only just approaching 10:00 am. I recall the exact time as I am sat on a cold stone bench when the large town square clock strikes the hour. This is achieved by two mechanical figures dressed in Maragato costume each striking a bell. The Maragato are a distinct tribe belonging to the Maragatería district of which Astorga is the centre.
Pausing a while, I am approached by a fellow pilgrim. A substantial aroma of stale wine arrives first to be followed by the physical person and lastly the heady fumes of last night's wine as he gets up close and quickly ascertains my preferred language. I am mildly concerned I will be adopting a walking buddy for the day or at least that I am about to be the one-person audience for a lengthy monologue. Not so. He points to the corner of the square and spits out the words 'bad men' with as much bile and irritability as he could muster, which was a significant amount. He stomps off while I follow the direction of his pointing and see only a UPS van and associated UPS employee. I know we all have bad delivery stories to tell but this seemed to be taking a grudge too far. The next stop in Astorga is the Plaza Catedral where I pause to gather my thoughts and plan the day ahead now that I have assumed responsibility for myself after two and a half weeks. I decide that Santa Catalina de Somoza will be a sensible stop as that is a normal stage distance. Somoza is derived from sub montia which is Latin for under the mountain, and the walker in me is excited again at the prospect of the mountains to come. I admire the external architecture of the cathedral and the magnificent Bishop's Palace designed by Gaudi but I am in the mood to walk and give the cathedral interior a miss.
The landscape is changing again with more variation of scrub land, crops, hedgerows and in places walls reminiscent of the dry-stone walls of the Yorkshire dales in England. The path is unusually quiet and I find myself pleasantly alone until I see a four people ahead. I see the usual blue, black and grey subdued hues representing this year's dull fashion in outdoor clothing, then one solitary multi-coloured apparition. After a while I pass a group of three who have stopped to pack away fleeces with the usual 'buen camino'. As I get closer to the rainbow apparition, I see it is an elf-like woman wearing every colour imaginable in solid block colours. She has opted for purple below the knee leggings to allow the opportunity to wear a pair of navy-blue shorts over the top and racing green long socks which serve to highlight her pink shoes with silver trim. In place of a grey fleece she has layered up with bright yellow long sleeve t-shirt with a red t-shirt over the top for warmth. Her small rucksack has panels of bold pink and yellow. To complement this visual feast for the eyes, she is darting from one side of the path to the other as she makes her contented way to Santiago. Like a small bird with bright plumage she darts around picking a berry here and a berry there as and when something catches her eye. As she zigzags along the broad path I catch-up and as I am enjoying the peace and tranquillity, I make a mental note not to get distracted. Naturally, having fuelled up on blackberries she is powered up and in a mood to chat. She is South Korean, has been retired for ten years and spends her time at home or travelling. We compare notes and she describes her daily routine with its late start and early finish policy. I explain my early start and late finish days, driven not by a defined strategy but something deep inside me, and again wish I could find a way to slow down as I receive a critical eye. She asks 'Why walk so fast and so far'? I have no answer. We walk together for a while with her driving the conversation until we reach a village where she is stopping as the albergue there serves quality Korean food.
Again, I wonder if slowing down might be a better way and, if so, how do I do that? Every morning when I rise the soles of my feet are numb and it takes a while to get them eased in. I get painful leg cramps every other night. Even when I check-in early to an albergue I will go for a walk around town, map out the way for the following morning and generally fail to stay still. However, I am doing what comes naturally to me so I try not to beat myself up too much. I am walking my own camino which is one of the many camino expressions, walking my own pace, my own way, and making use of the opportunities that present themselves along the way. The mountains are drawing closer and they must be exerting a magnetic pull as I sub-consciously change my plan and walk on to Rabanal del Camino at the foot of the mountain that will be the highest point on the whole walk at 1,515 metres above sea level. As Astorga stands at 900 metres above sea level the camino has kept most of the height gained from the gradual climb up to the flat meseta. Rabanal itself is 1,155 metres above sea level. The climb to the highest peak will be fine though the decent down to 610 metres will be onerous and a signal that we are getting closer to the autonomous region of Galicia and its hilly landscape and changeable climate where days of endless rain are a distinct possibility as we move into October.
As I approach Rabanal I feel a short puff of cooling breeze coming down off the mountain above. It quickly subsides to be replaced with a warm waft of air coming up from the hot plains below. This contest between the warm air of the plains and the cool air of the mountains continues as the mountain god pushes down block after block of cool air until the mountains prevail as I reach Rabanal. Having carried warmer clothing for three hundred and fifty miles I now knew why they were on the standard packing list as there was a distinct chill in the air. Rabanal is built out of the solid rock of the mountains it sits under and is mostly arranged around the main street that runs through this large village. I am staying at the albergue Gaucelmo which is run by the Confraternity of St James in London and the hospitaleros on duty today are an English couple who are doing the standard two-week voluntary placement that they have been doing for the last ten years. The confraternities in various countries support the camino and pilgrims in many ways such as providing resources, advice, pilgrimage briefings, coordinating local pilgrim groups and running albergues. Volunteering is one way to give back to the camino; provided you have the language skills to manage any local issues that may arise it is a good way to spend retirement time.
The albergue is opposite the twelfth century Romanesque church, Iglesia Santa María and from the schedule on display at the albergue I see that pilgrims are well catered for here. 4:30 pm there is English tea and biscuits in the albergue's salón (lounge), 7:00 pm Vespers and 9:30 pm Compline at the church. On departure there is breakfast provided from 6:30 am. The albergue is smart and ideally arranged and proportioned for the tired pilgrim and the hospitaleros are very welcoming and provide directions to the best shop in the village for provisions. I get shown to the dormitory and am given some standard albergue advice which is for the young and able people to take the top bunks leaving the bottom bunks for the less able to climb up. I am left to decide which category I fall in though of course all the bottom bunks are taken.
The 4:30 pm tea is a way to get people together in this forty bed albergue. Twenty people congregate around a large refectory-style table and enjoy tea from a large brown pot and eat their way through a plentiful supply of rich tea biscuits. Despite picking the English run albergue to find some English speakers there was the full range of nationalities and people were slow to start talking despite prompting from the hospitaleros. I took the opportunity to get some advice on the options to walk to Finisterre given I would have time to spare for that route but no guidebook as yet. A Belgian and an Italian couple show me the way on a handy wall map. It is a lollipop walk, first out along the stick of the lollipop from Santiago towards the coast, then a left fork round the sugar candy to Finisterre, up the coast to Muxía, then head inland to finish the sugar candy loop and re-join the path where you took the left fork and back along the lollipop stick into Santiago. Later, I would find a guidebook in Santiago that reliably talked me through the well sign-posted walk out to coast then on the return the author seemed to run out of energy as just when the returns signs were getting hazy the book declared with a sweep of the hand that, having walked out, you can easily find you way back along thirty miles of tracks and country roads with no further help.
After tea I am reading my camino guidebook in the Salón when one of the hospitaleros comes in. She is apoplectic as she stands in the doorway. For a full minute she cannot speak as she summons enough calm and control to give voice to her recent traumatic encounter. The story relayed to me is that a Welshman had just come to the albergue door and asked for a stamp for his pilgrim passport as he was staying at accommodation that did not provide stamps; this is normal and acceptable behaviour. The hospitaleros were happy to oblige but enquired why he was not staying with them given his nationality. The Welshman took offence asking why there should be any obligation on him to stay at the English albergue. The English hospitaleros took greater offence and a short but heartfelt row ensued which (we can only assume) had more to do with ancient English-Welsh rivalries than a simple stamp. I soak up this venting and make sympathetic noises whilst secretly thinking that both parties had stoked this version of an old rivalry and desperately hoping she leaves me in peace.
After a rest it is time to shop and because the store owners grow some of their own produce there are fine organic tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers to be had along with tinned squid and a jar of chickpeas to make up dinner. This is a typical shopping list when there is no pilgrim meal on offer and I try to vary how these core ingredients are combined. Kitchens can be busy and hob space at a premium so a cold salad makes for a relaxed evening and on this night I am given some hot pasta in a tomato sauce by a young Italian couple who are proud of their culinary accomplishment. The joys of communal living.
Unsurprisingly there is no multiplex in Rabanal and so the church is popular with pilgrims looking for a night out. With the grieving process left behind on the meseta, I am left to enjoy the peace and tranquillity of this human scaled church perched on its ledge beneath the mountains. Evening prayers (Vespers) are in Latin with a mostly passive congregation soaking up the music sung by the monks who preside. I am surprised at the announcement before the start which asks for no cameras, but then understand as people come in late and treat the service as a photo opportunity. Given how well behaved my fellow walkers usually are, I am unsure what has prompted this sudden relapse. I decide that Compline is way past my end-of-day and retire at 8:30 pm when sleep comes easily.
The twenty-eight of September and I am the last one to start walking at 7:10 am. This is a pay-in-advance donativo albergue and the diligent hospitaleros had stressed the importance of a suitable donation to cover expenses as they held out the donation tin. I had been suitably generous the night before and I now look forward rather greedily to my English breakfast. Unfortunately, the Confraternity of St James in England has clearly decreed that this is an albergue of modesty and constraint. Breakfast is tea or instant coffee with bread and jam. When I look after myself and go to find a plate, I am firmly informed by the ever vigilant hospitaleros that a serviette will do. Feeling more than a little hen-pecked I fill up on sugary jam and stodgy bread to fuel me for the day ahead. I remind myself that part of the pilgrimage and being a pilgrim is to give thanks for whatever is given. This is in contrast to the tourist mantras of demand and consume.
It is inky black as I leave the last street light behind in Rabanal and the stars are bright and unusually fat. The last street light is actually located just out of town where the countryside starts and as I stood under its soft white glow it rather felt as if I'd just stepped out of the back of a wardrobe somewhere. My legs feel fresh and as I walk up the gentle incline, I am pleased I pushed on to Rabanal the day before to reach the foot of the mountains. In that morning tramp in the dark, I become aware, not for the first time, that my individual body parts have taken over discrete duties leaving me free to reflect or rest. My feet look after night vision in the dark, my legs look after walking pace, and my right shoulder sends its daily signal to my brain that it is still not happy. For once my brain takes notice and tells me to adjust the straps on my rucksack which I do. Having complained, my shoulder goes quiet and no doubt I'll find out tomorrow if the latest adjustment has worked.
At 9:00 am I reach the defining monument on the Camino Francés that is the Iron Cross or Cruz de Fero.
A simple iron cross is perched on a large pole. One of the most enduring traditions of the camino is for pilgrims to carry a stone from home and deposit it here. In that symbolic act they can relieve themselves of any burden they carry. For many pilgrims, myself included, the stone can be of less significance than stopping and pausing for reflection. I love the architecture of churches and cathedrals, Christopher Wren's re-building of the City of London churches following the Great Fire, the English Baroque of Nicholas Hawksmoor in London, and the history that is often on display as you see the effects of destruction and re-building over the centuries. Such buildings are designed to offer a sense of peace and sanctuary. The Iron Cross is set high up on an unassuming patch of the landscape avoiding the highest point in the area and in this simplicity and modesty seems to capture that sense of peace and sanctuary that can take master builders a century to build. As I approach it is clear that everyone is stopping, taking off their rucksacks and pausing to contemplate their own reasons for being there. I observe a middle-aged couple turn to each other and embrace as if over some great sorrow and I wonder at what loss brought them to this place. A young woman from Hong Kong is here for personal reasons and has also brought with her a small banner as democracy for Hong Kong was being fought for back home and she did not want to leave that fight behind. I ask if it is OK to take a photo. She says 'yes'. I take a photo.
Forcing myself to leave the sanctuary of the Iron Cross I continue the short distance to the highest point of the Camino Francés. My hand-written journal makes no reference to this significant landmark, perhaps because it was dwarfed by the Iron Cross and maybe I did not take the time to make the small diversion to reach the very summit. It has been a strength of my camino that I have walked my own way, at my own peace and I haven't had my head in the guidebook all day. I would have to accept that maybe I missed a few things on the way that I could make time for if I ever came back.
The decent was harder than the ascent being longer and steeper. This made it more telling when I came across an elderly man with a staff. The downhill path was rocky with natural, if uneven, steps and though it was no harder than walking down stairs he was having significant difficulty. I stop and assist by providing support on his non-staff hand and he instructs me in Spanish to walk one step in front. I assume this was so he would have a soft landing if he fell which was highly probable. We pass the steep section and part company until I come to the next steep section I wait and again assist. At the next steep section, we have separated again and looking back I see more pilgrims approaching him so I assume he will be cared for and so I continue. I try and imagine what would bring someone so frail to embark on such a journey. Had he walked from St Jean Pied de Port, Burgos, Leon, or was he out for one day tackling the hardest section he could find? I have no doubt that he arrived at his destination safely though the path from Rabanal is marked by a number of small monuments to people who have died on the camino. It is perhaps no surprise that people die in small numbers on the camino today. In the medieval age death was in many cases an expected outcome of the pilgrimage and a large number of hospitals were erected to provide basic food and shelter and these were supplemented by cemeteries. Pilgrims often embarked on their pilgrimage when they were close to death as a means to help secure their entry to heaven. Those with relatively good health and money were prey to bandits and those without money were reliant on charity for their sustenance. The local population were often happy to provide the charity and the act of giving helped to secure their own place in heaven. A win-win situation and one that still exists, albeit in a stylised form, ten hundred years later in the donativo system.
As I pass through the first village, I notice that the Belgium man and Italian couple from the night before are settled into a cafe and they give me a hearty wave and 'buen camino' as I pass. Yet again I walk too far and am fatigued when I get to Columbrianos just pass the large town of Ponferrada which has a modern sprawl of suburbs around the old medieval centre. From the guidebook, the albergue had the appearance of being connected to the small chapel it sits opposite but turns out to be a modern affair attached to a small cafe-bar. Having attended to shower, beer and laundry in that order I go in search of food and find that everything is closed so I sit in the pleasant albergue garden as the bar provides food from 7:00 pm though the menu does not appeal to me as it is pizza, scampi, chips and similar tourist fare.
Just as I start to regret not stopping at Ponferrada I find myself enjoying a lively dinner with a New Zealander keen to talk to someone, anyone, an Argentinian who spends her days on her mobile to work as that was a condition of her release, a young German man wise for his years, and a young South Korean woman travelling alone. The ringleader to the happy band that night was Charles who would introduce me to Kara two days later. The Argentinian had arrived late and was the surviving member of Charles' camino family with the others left behind on the camino. Her story that night was one of talking to work on her phone, missing camino directions and then walking along the A-6 autopista (Motorway) through a tunnel until the police picked her up.
The twenty-ninth of September and after a late night I finally start walking at 8:00 am. It is the time of year when the daylight reduces quickly with every passing day and I have now been walking sufficient days to notice this. At my current walking pace I have only six days to go before I will arrive in Santiago. I am in no rush to finish and if anything would like to prolong the journey. I stop for a rest at 11:00 am among the vineyards in peaceful solitude. This is a world of small vineyards hugging the slopes of small hills. Naturally, you stop for two minutes and the endless stream of pilgrims catch you up and this includes the Italian from the albergue in Viloria where we shared the wholesome paella with Colette, the American and the Irishman. He is always cheerful and waves as he passes not allowing the language barrier to get in the way of showing his joy. Moving on, I notice it is harvest time in the vineyards as I pass a small group of pickers getting organised alongside a small collection of ancient vehicles that will be used to transport the grapes. There is a old car, a tractor and trailer and something that resembles a Deux-Chevaux pickup truck; the pickup version of the classic Citroen 2CV car. Later that day I would pass a domestic garage on the village main street with its small wine press ready to accept the grapes for small scale production. Today's significant town is the delightful Villafranca del Bierzo which has a range of cafes and restaurants and though I treat myself to an ice cream I am itching to move on. Just out of town there is an option to take a diversion via a hill village to avoid some of the road and I opt for the quiet away from cars and other walkers. When you get to the fork in the road the options are visible, clear and stark. Stay on the flat or buckle up and walk up a forty-five degree gradient. This steep route rewards me with a lovely hillside walk rising up out of the Valcarce valley with no distractions other than the overly energetic Italian who must have stopped off somewhere as he passed me again with his trademark cheery wave. As I marvel at how quickly he passes me I realise that I had failed to top up my water bottle in the last town and being slightly dehydrated I am plodding along accordingly. Making these mistakes is fine but not recognising you have made them as you wander on as if in a trance is not really pardonable. I cross "Ramblers Association Walk Leader" off my list of potential retirement activities. As I make my way into the village of Pradela there was the usual clucking and crowing of chickens and a large market garden terrace with every sort of seasonal vegetable growing in large blocks as if this was either a small commercial venture or a collective run by the village. This soil served practical needs and there was no space for prize marrows as you have on British allotments. I find the albergue Lamas and am just in time to see the Italian finishing a beer before heading off. I am the first to arrive looking for a bed though it is already 3:00 pm. After receiving confirmation that there is a bed for me, I ask for two beers and am invited to sit down and rest as the family is finishing what appears to be a jovial lunch in the communal dining area. As I start to recover, Ana, the hospitalera, brings over a small slice of bread and tortilla. It is only when they sing Happy Birthday that I realise the occasion and my sweaty intrusion. Ana brings me a slice of birthday cake (an egg tart) and I draw on my four months of online Spanish lessons to say 'feliz cumpleanos'. I am pleased at any opportunity to use the Spanish language and it brings to mind an early camino experience when passing a large concrete wall I saw emblazoned the words 'leer mas', or 'read more'. There isn't much graffiti on the camino and I never could work out why someone would go out of their way, with a suitable spray can, to write this particular slogan. Sadly, the main graffiti you see is marker pen annotation of the formal camino signs. Again, I could not understand the motivation of a minority of pilgrims to deface signs with marker pen scribbling. Someone, somewhere, when packing their rucksack must have made a conscious decision along the lines of 'spare socks, clean pants, poncho and a fat waterproof marker pen for graffiti'. I am being a bit cynical as in some areas there are blank boards erected for people to leave messages.
Later when I had been shown my bed, I realised I was the only person staying in this remote ten bed albergue in the village on the hill side. It is early and I walk down the road the edge of the village. This doesn't take long and I find a spot where I can sit on a wall with a view along into the valley. An elderly man joins me and pauses. He points up the valley and says something. Scanning my limited Spanish vocabulary I draw a blank and my face reflects that. He points again and (I assume) repeats his words of wisdom. This time I follow his gaze and understand. The dark clouds - over there - and wind direction - coming from the clouds - tell me there is rain coming.
I ate alone that night with Ana in the kitchen and her daughter acting as waitress. Though I initially felt slightly self-conscious the food took over and I let myself enjoy the simple pleasure of a home cooked dinner. The soup was made from the local runner beans with the seeds and soft pods being used with the addition of potatoes. It had a rustic dull olive green appearance and tasted delicious. I guessed all the produce came from the local market garden and Ana confirmed this for me as she rather proudly boasted that the village had no supermarket. Next came a chicken stew with hearty chunks of sweetcorn on the cob and mixed vegetables. The chicken meat was dark, fatty and flavoursome and I wondered if this was the same bird that had made so much noise on my walk into the village earlier. Dessert was the usual vanilla custard and all washed down with a syrupy local red wine.
The thirtieth of September and though I am up early I take time to update my journal while I am rested and I also attend to my feet. My right heel in particular has blisters over old blisters and I take some care to dress it and secure with plasters before pulling on boots and snug up the laces to prevent rubbing. This strategy appears to be working for me as I can walk pain-free and my heels can repair themselves sufficiently over-night. A bowl of locally picked fruit stands in the albergue hall with a donation tin and I pack some for today's lunch. The night before, as soon as Ana had ascertained I would be leaving early like all the other crazy pilgrims, she issues clear instructions that when I left by the gated yard I should in no circumstances let the dog out as she did not want him to follow me to Santiago. Though the instructions were clear, they were in clear Spanish; luckily, I managed to pick out 'no haga', 'perro', and 'Santiago' and even I could make "do not dog Santiago" into a meaningful sentence. Unfortunately, my plan for a slick exit was hampered by my rucksack and the dog escaped ready to start his own camino. Holding the gate ajar I implored the wayward dog to go back to its home. As he frolicked around outside like a lamb in spring-time he cast a look at me that suggested he was not planning on giving up his freedom easily. There was a brief stand-off until the dog saw a cat. The dog did what came naturally and chased the cat. The cat did what came naturally and ran for cover behind me and into the closed yard I had just left with the dog still in hot pursuit. I did what came naturally and slamming the gate shut on the two friends headed onward to Santiago at pace.
Dropping down off the hillside I see there is a layer of mist below me spreading out like a flat endless ocean hiding the landscape beneath but with the higher hills peeking through to form tiny islands. On I walk downhill until I pass through the band of mist and into the clear air below. When I get to the valley floor I re-join the main camino path which at this point follows a main road, the N-IV, which still has a number of trucks rumbling past despite the new autopista, the A-6, that runs parallel to it and takes much of the traffic.
When I finally get off the main road I am walking with Darcy from Derby. If it has not been obvious, I am of course using aliases for the people I meet. She recounts her story which is one of a bad marriage from which she is just extracting herself. She was using the camino as time out to re-build her confidence and re-start her life. She talked about how her soon to be ex-husband had mocked her plan to walk five hundred miles and at how his comments had made her stronger and more determined to break free and do her own thing. His feedback to her, 'you couldn't walk to the end of the street let alone across Spain', said much more about his insecurities than her walking ability. She was definitely walking her own camino and her broad strategy was to walk around ten miles a day, stop at every cafe and collect as main stamps as possible. You need to get at least one stamp a day to prove how far you have walked and two stamps a day over the last one hundred kilometres though there is no upper limit. She had a plan and that was working for her and I reflected on my own clueless strategy for the camino which was to walk towards the west and hope I didn't accidentally miss Santiago. As we enter the next town, Vega de Valcarce, we agree to stop for a café con leche and she pops into the nearby pharmacy to pick up medication. After twenty minutes of sipping my coffee and taking a rare look at my pristine guidebook she finally joins me and I get a second cup. She proudly shows me her collection of stamps (which span three pilgrim passports) and her beat-up guidebook with its annotations and scribbles. Sat in that cafe in the peace and quiet of the camino before Sarria, I was more than a little envious of how Darcy had engaged with the camino. She had embraced the camino and all it had to offer her and for however long she would walk Darcy had made it the essence of her life. Though I was doing the camino my way and getting a lot from that, I secretly wished that 'my way' was at a slower pace. When Darcy is ready, we head off and as we hit the climb up to O' Cebreiro she saves her breath for the climb and we part ways. This is a gradual climb from 600 metres at Vega de Valcarce to 1,300 metres at O' Cebreiro. On the way an enterprising have setup a stable and offer a horseback ride up most of the climb. The stable has its 'merchandise' out on the road on full display and a dozen horses are arranged with heads grazing on the left-hand verge and the body stretched across the road. The walker has no other option than to navigate the rear end of the row of well-behaved horses. It is a long climb with increasingly splendid views.
There are magnificent mountain views as I finally complete my ascent. There is a handy picnic site with benches and tables and I make use of this to finish some bread and tinned mussels I have been carrying for too long and the fruit from the last albergue which feels a long way away. O' Cebreiro has a small tourist centre with examples of the local cone shaped thatched roofs, gift shops and cafes and comes as a slight shock as it is a peak that also has a main road with the attendant tourist mini-buses and tourists. I quickly walk on through.
From the hamlet of O' Cebreiro it is a short undulating walk to another pilgrim monument. This is a landscape that has more in common with the Austrian Tyrol than the Spanish plains we have left behind. The landscape is so beautiful I was imagining of the von Trapp family coming over the hill when, four minutes later, the von Trapp family came over the hill. There were four of them, on bikes with trailers comprising mum, dad and two daughters aged around twelve and fourteen. They passed me on the slight downhill with their beaming faces and we all then hit a slight uphill gradient and the twelve-year old started to slow down then wobble precariously; as she was at my side, I provided a small push. With this extra impetus she started peddling, forcing me to speed up, causing her to peddle harder and before long we were both hurtling up the hill at a pace the girl was delighted with, but one that I could not sustain. Fortunately for me, mum had stopped at an ever steeper section ahead so just as my lungs were about to give out the family came to a halt. That modest exertion had nearly killed me and as I paused to admire the pilgrim monument, I made solemn vow to get fit when I got home. Take up running or something. As it turned out I did take up running and soon joined in weekly park runs. The family catches up and I find that they are from New Zealand, they love the outdoors and it is clear that the two girls are thoroughly enjoying their cycling holiday. Dad thanks me for the earlier help and I try and sound nonchalant in my 'that's OK', as if running up hills with a ten-kilo rucksack pushing a bike was all in a day's walking.
Today was shaping up to be a tiring and eventful day though as I continue the gradual decent to wherever I would stop I did not know how long.
Five miles from the town of Triacastela I catch-up with Charles from the albergue two nights ago and he introduces me to his companion for the day, Kara from Australia. We walk on together and pick up Louis, a Brazilian, who was attending to blisters. It is 4:00 pm and getting late. Though this is day twenty for me and included a long climb I am feeling relaxed, cheery, and my legs are still working. Charles maintains a lively banter and as a father, this drifts into the subject of childbirth. Kara, a mother herself, keeps her own experiences to herself as Charles expounds on his chosen subject from a male perspective. This includes a description of how he satisfied his wife's desire to eat her placenta after the birth of their second child. Charles assures us midwifes are perfectly happy to provide a 'take-away' service for the raw ingredient but the preparation is down to you. There are recipes readily available if you choose to google, and it took a large amount of alcohol to be consumed before he could venture into the kitchen. Charles had remembered I was travelling with no phone and he had made some attempts over the last two days to be less connected. However, he still had the sense to book accommodation ahead and as we entered the hamlet of Fillobal he said farewell to us as Kara was booked into a place in Triacastela. Space permitting Fillobal would have made a good stopping point for me but something drew me on and I continued with Kara and Louis. Without Charles to regale us with light-hearted stories Kara quickly switched to her experiences over the last two years. I was hugely impressed with her ability to slide the conversation to her chosen topic in a seamless manner; this was becoming a camino trend as people made use of any new faces as a fresh opportunity to tell, re-tell and refine their story and in doing so help their process of healing.
Kara had a four-year old daughter and had spent the last two years being the sole carer with help from family and friends following her husband's suicide. She had been devastated but had to work through the trauma and look after their daughter. She was a working mum which meant a large amount of childcare juggling and though she had wider support that could only go so far and her experience was one of having to support and nurture her daughter through an impossible period in their lives. I was in awe of this young woman as she spoke of how she had tried to make the family death real to her daughter, who in turn had wanted to have the conversations. The daughter could only think in small chunks so the mother had to be ready to field the questions and be able to switch contexts from biscuit baking to bereavement and back to happy biscuit baking in a matter of minutes. The two had supported each other in a very real way. Kara had already worked out her life plan which involved a change in career and a simpler lifestyle centred on family. Being able to take time out on the camino was her way of finding some space and time for herself and that must have been a hard decision to make, though as she commented, she was thinking of the long term and she needed to be strong for that. As Kara came to the end of her story, we came to the town of Triacastela. With vague plans to meet up for dinner she went to her albergue and I found myself stood in the street with Louis feeling drained and exhausted. It was 7:00 pm and I had started walking at 7:40 am with few breaks; the twenty-six miles, the long climb and lack of water in the afternoon all caught up with me as I stood their numb. I tried to summon some energy to act and find a bed. At 7:00 pm I may be lucky to find anything. I'd need to get my guidebook out. Where was the next albergue if Triacastela was completo (full). I become aware that the Spanish speaking Louis is on his mobile phone and when he hangs up he says he has found beds for us both. He leads me the short way to the albergue, finds someone to take our money and in a daze, I follow him to the dormitory. For once I forego the usual beer and rely on water to re-hydrate then go through the normal routine. I am still exhausted when it comes to finding food and as I don't have the energy to seek out Kara, I fall into the nearest restaurant for their standard pilgrim meal. With my journal updated on the day's events I managed to record that the starter was chickpea and pork soup then I suppose I gave in to the wine.
The first of October and a new month. Luckily, I remember my laundry (wet from overnight rain) as I prepare to leave and finally get going at 8:00 am. The sun is often late creeping into the sheltered valleys as we are now in Galicia. Today is a day of undulating countryside not unlike a Dorset landscape of drovers' paths through a lush green landscape. My feet and legs are tired and aching from the previous day and I let my legs set the pace. This is dairy country and the smell of cattle follows me all day. When I pass though Sarria I stop at a church to get a stamp for my pilgrim passport as we are now within one hundred kilometres of Santiago and need two stamps a day. There is a volunteer in the church ready to stamp pilgrim passports and I get to dust off my French again when I am asked to explain to a French pilgrim that she needs two stamps a day from here to Santiago. I am also given a booklet which suggests key churches that need to be visited with a vague hint that this is a requirement to be awarded the compostela. As there is no unifying authority for pilgrimage it is not unusual to encounter different interpretations and advice. In this case I think some local body was trying to encourage what they saw as the right approach and perhaps a boost to church donation trays. From Sarria the way is marked by tree lined lanes and woodland paths and is very special in an unassuming way. Apart from the stunning landscape, the most remarkable feature of today is that I don't run into anyone I know. It is as if the camino knows I need some quiet space after yesterday's marathon though I still cover twenty-two miles before arriving at Mercadoiro and my albergue for the night. This upmarket albergue is twelve euros for the night and boasts a broad lawn with stunning views over the Galician countryside which you can take in while draped on a sun lounger.
The pilgrim meal that night is eight euros and is good if basic. I sit with a pair of German brothers and a woman from Slovakia. The Germans are a little too keen to talk politics as it was the autumn of 2019 when the UK was on the brink of exiting the Europe Union. They eventually see I am not interested but not until they have made their grand point which is that the UK had pleaded to join the union at a time when the UK was in economic crisis and needed the support of Europe. That took four years of negotiation before membership was attained in 1973. Their well-rehearsed question to me was deftly slipped in as a polite enquiry, as if it was an after-thought. 'So when do you think the UK will ask to re-join?'. As I ponder how much baiting of UK citizens this pair of brothers have engaged in since St Jean Pied de Port I give them my best poker face before turning my attention to the neglected Slovakian. Perhaps I should have been more sympathetic to their cause as Germany is probably in the top five EU countries to be impacted economically by the UK's departure. The Slovakian woman was in her mid-50s and travelling alone and (to my shame) six months later as I write up my journal, I cannot remember what we talked about. So, let us look at some statistics instead as I have been pleased and impressed to see women well represented on the camino and unlike many of the men have been out on the road healing themselves and wearing that badge proudly instead of hiding behind conversation on how to avoid blisters. So says the man about to talk statistics. In 2004 the camino saw 100,383 men and 79,487 women arrive in Santiago for their compostela and in 2019 the numbers were 177,803 women and 169,782 men. The numbers have nearly doubled over the fifteen years and women now outnumbered men overall. Women also outnumbered men month on month in the warmer months from mid-March to mid-October with men seeming to have a greater preference than women for the less busy, but wetter, winter months. Camino statistics are difficult as people start at different points and can finish at different points though Santiago is something of a constant.
I am now on the home straight with less than one hundred kilometres to go. Sketching out the days it will take me to walk out to Finisterre, up to Muxía and back to Santiago it is clear I will have time as I will likely arrive in Santiago on the fourth of October and my train ticket out is for the nineteenth of October. I was starting to hear stories of losing queues to get the compostela in Santiago so even if I lose a day or so I have plenty of time in hand. I have given up trying to artificially slow down and perhaps that will happen on my second pilgrimage to Finisterre.
Chapter 7. Arriving
Sarria is the next major milestone as it is just over one hundred kilometres from Santiago. Sarria is the town where walking pilgrims start if they only have time for a short camino while still qualifying for the compostela; the grand paper certificate of completion. That last hundred kilometres is busier with the uplift in people due to those starting at Sarria, and with the finish line in sight the camino is said to take on a different feel. Though I only recently vowed to slow down, I am already anxious to get going and back into the hills as I approach the western reaches of the Camino Francés. The high-level outline maps in my guidebook which had started with green blotches signifying hills, and had then turned stubbornly beige for the flat meseta, are again filled with dollops of hilly green for the days to come.
It takes two and a half hours to clear León and on the outskirts I meet an Australian and together we work out how to take the scenic diversion which will allow us to avoid walking alongside the N-120 all the way to Hospital de Orbigo which would be twenty-one miles of the kind of soul destruction I am looking to avoid today. We eventually find the path using the time-honoured navigational technique of just walking bravely on and hoping to find a sign. Like so many camino encounters she was happy to tell an abridged version of her story which included a bad year and the camino was, like so many others, time for herself.
Moving on it is 10:00 am and I am at the small village of Chozas de Abajo. The local cafe owner has, I suspect, diverted the camino to pass conveniently in the front of his cafe as there is a distinctive kink in the path. This is quite common and usually to the benefit of the hungry footsore pilgrim. With no French group to provide a plan for the day I see I am only four kilometres from the normal stage end for today and I suspect I will walk on. It still seems slightly odd to walk with no fixed end point or a bed arranged for the night but I have fallen into that routine easily, happily walking until I am tired then looking for a bed. Walking out of Chozas de Abajo I can see hills in the distance and this spurs me on. After picking my way through the outskirts of Hospital de Orbigo I arrive at the magnificent bridge that leads me to the old part of town where I hope find accommodation.
The bridge at Hospital de Orbigo is home to a classic camino story. A noble knight had been scorned by a lady, so he threw down a challenge to any knight to try and cross the bridge that he was defending. This attracted so much interest that in just a month he had broken three hundred lances. His honour being restored he travelled on to Santiago de Compostela to offer his thanks to St. James. The bridge now has a jousting arena beside it on the flood plain and is still used for medieval re-enactments.
I check-in to an albergue run by a German confraternity. It is basic but very friendly and benefits from a quiet walled garden though the bunk beds are tightly packed into small chalets which look and feel like POW blocks. I've been allotted a bed for the night and am happy for that. I see the Korean taegum player and her husband are already here despite it being a thirty-five kilometre walk from León. Having attended to the shower and laundry routine I am back at the bridge when the young Italian man from some days ago passes with a cheery wave. I see him a lot as we walk the same mileage and though there is a solid language barrier the familiarity is somehow comforting after long days on the way. As I walk back over the Puente Orbigo (Orbigo bridge) away from the old town a South Korean film crew drive up in a minibus and minivan and screech to a halt in a cloud of dust. They are all action as they get the short segment they need, then they are in the vans again and off, presumably circling round to get to the old town on the other side of the pedestrian-only bridge as I see them later interviewing pilgrims back at the albergue.
The twenty-seventh of September and I start walking at 6:40 am knowing around one hour of walking in the dark lays ahead with no torch or headlamp which most of the sensible and prepared early morning walkers use. The signage is either sparse or I am just not seeing it and as the sun rises I am suddenly unsure of the way. I have been walking long enough now simply to turn my back to the sun in the east and walk to the west confidently and with a sense of purpose. Though this usually works I don't offer it as a firm recommendation. The first major stop is the city of Astorga which has the feel of a substantial market town with lots of Roman, military and trading history and I pause a while in the Plaza Mayor for a breakfast of water and apple. It is no surprise that I have lost weight and the shorts I bought with comfort in mind are now hanging off me and held up by a crude arrangement involving a strap from my rucksack. The square is quiet as it is only just approaching 10:00 am. I recall the exact time as I am sat on a cold stone bench when the large town square clock strikes the hour. This is achieved by two mechanical figures dressed in Maragato costume each striking a bell. The Maragato are a distinct tribe belonging to the Maragatería district of which Astorga is the centre.
Pausing a while, I am approached by a fellow pilgrim. A substantial aroma of stale wine arrives first to be followed by the physical person and lastly the heady fumes of last night's wine as he gets up close and quickly ascertains my preferred language. I am mildly concerned I will be adopting a walking buddy for the day or at least that I am about to be the one-person audience for a lengthy monologue. Not so. He points to the corner of the square and spits out the words 'bad men' with as much bile and irritability as he could muster, which was a significant amount. He stomps off while I follow the direction of his pointing and see only a UPS van and associated UPS employee. I know we all have bad delivery stories to tell but this seemed to be taking a grudge too far. The next stop in Astorga is the Plaza Catedral where I pause to gather my thoughts and plan the day ahead now that I have assumed responsibility for myself after two and a half weeks. I decide that Santa Catalina de Somoza will be a sensible stop as that is a normal stage distance. Somoza is derived from sub montia which is Latin for under the mountain, and the walker in me is excited again at the prospect of the mountains to come. I admire the external architecture of the cathedral and the magnificent Bishop's Palace designed by Gaudi but I am in the mood to walk and give the cathedral interior a miss.
The landscape is changing again with more variation of scrub land, crops, hedgerows and in places walls reminiscent of the dry-stone walls of the Yorkshire dales in England. The path is unusually quiet and I find myself pleasantly alone until I see a four people ahead. I see the usual blue, black and grey subdued hues representing this year's dull fashion in outdoor clothing, then one solitary multi-coloured apparition. After a while I pass a group of three who have stopped to pack away fleeces with the usual 'buen camino'. As I get closer to the rainbow apparition, I see it is an elf-like woman wearing every colour imaginable in solid block colours. She has opted for purple below the knee leggings to allow the opportunity to wear a pair of navy-blue shorts over the top and racing green long socks which serve to highlight her pink shoes with silver trim. In place of a grey fleece she has layered up with bright yellow long sleeve t-shirt with a red t-shirt over the top for warmth. Her small rucksack has panels of bold pink and yellow. To complement this visual feast for the eyes, she is darting from one side of the path to the other as she makes her contented way to Santiago. Like a small bird with bright plumage she darts around picking a berry here and a berry there as and when something catches her eye. As she zigzags along the broad path I catch-up and as I am enjoying the peace and tranquillity, I make a mental note not to get distracted. Naturally, having fuelled up on blackberries she is powered up and in a mood to chat. She is South Korean, has been retired for ten years and spends her time at home or travelling. We compare notes and she describes her daily routine with its late start and early finish policy. I explain my early start and late finish days, driven not by a defined strategy but something deep inside me, and again wish I could find a way to slow down as I receive a critical eye. She asks 'Why walk so fast and so far'? I have no answer. We walk together for a while with her driving the conversation until we reach a village where she is stopping as the albergue there serves quality Korean food.
Again, I wonder if slowing down might be a better way and, if so, how do I do that? Every morning when I rise the soles of my feet are numb and it takes a while to get them eased in. I get painful leg cramps every other night. Even when I check-in early to an albergue I will go for a walk around town, map out the way for the following morning and generally fail to stay still. However, I am doing what comes naturally to me so I try not to beat myself up too much. I am walking my own camino which is one of the many camino expressions, walking my own pace, my own way, and making use of the opportunities that present themselves along the way. The mountains are drawing closer and they must be exerting a magnetic pull as I sub-consciously change my plan and walk on to Rabanal del Camino at the foot of the mountain that will be the highest point on the whole walk at 1,515 metres above sea level. As Astorga stands at 900 metres above sea level the camino has kept most of the height gained from the gradual climb up to the flat meseta. Rabanal itself is 1,155 metres above sea level. The climb to the highest peak will be fine though the decent down to 610 metres will be onerous and a signal that we are getting closer to the autonomous region of Galicia and its hilly landscape and changeable climate where days of endless rain are a distinct possibility as we move into October.
As I approach Rabanal I feel a short puff of cooling breeze coming down off the mountain above. It quickly subsides to be replaced with a warm waft of air coming up from the hot plains below. This contest between the warm air of the plains and the cool air of the mountains continues as the mountain god pushes down block after block of cool air until the mountains prevail as I reach Rabanal. Having carried warmer clothing for three hundred and fifty miles I now knew why they were on the standard packing list as there was a distinct chill in the air. Rabanal is built out of the solid rock of the mountains it sits under and is mostly arranged around the main street that runs through this large village. I am staying at the albergue Gaucelmo which is run by the Confraternity of St James in London and the hospitaleros on duty today are an English couple who are doing the standard two-week voluntary placement that they have been doing for the last ten years. The confraternities in various countries support the camino and pilgrims in many ways such as providing resources, advice, pilgrimage briefings, coordinating local pilgrim groups and running albergues. Volunteering is one way to give back to the camino; provided you have the language skills to manage any local issues that may arise it is a good way to spend retirement time.
The albergue is opposite the twelfth century Romanesque church, Iglesia Santa María and from the schedule on display at the albergue I see that pilgrims are well catered for here. 4:30 pm there is English tea and biscuits in the albergue's salón (lounge), 7:00 pm Vespers and 9:30 pm Compline at the church. On departure there is breakfast provided from 6:30 am. The albergue is smart and ideally arranged and proportioned for the tired pilgrim and the hospitaleros are very welcoming and provide directions to the best shop in the village for provisions. I get shown to the dormitory and am given some standard albergue advice which is for the young and able people to take the top bunks leaving the bottom bunks for the less able to climb up. I am left to decide which category I fall in though of course all the bottom bunks are taken.
The 4:30 pm tea is a way to get people together in this forty bed albergue. Twenty people congregate around a large refectory-style table and enjoy tea from a large brown pot and eat their way through a plentiful supply of rich tea biscuits. Despite picking the English run albergue to find some English speakers there was the full range of nationalities and people were slow to start talking despite prompting from the hospitaleros. I took the opportunity to get some advice on the options to walk to Finisterre given I would have time to spare for that route but no guidebook as yet. A Belgian and an Italian couple show me the way on a handy wall map. It is a lollipop walk, first out along the stick of the lollipop from Santiago towards the coast, then a left fork round the sugar candy to Finisterre, up the coast to Muxía, then head inland to finish the sugar candy loop and re-join the path where you took the left fork and back along the lollipop stick into Santiago. Later, I would find a guidebook in Santiago that reliably talked me through the well sign-posted walk out to coast then on the return the author seemed to run out of energy as just when the returns signs were getting hazy the book declared with a sweep of the hand that, having walked out, you can easily find you way back along thirty miles of tracks and country roads with no further help.
After tea I am reading my camino guidebook in the Salón when one of the hospitaleros comes in. She is apoplectic as she stands in the doorway. For a full minute she cannot speak as she summons enough calm and control to give voice to her recent traumatic encounter. The story relayed to me is that a Welshman had just come to the albergue door and asked for a stamp for his pilgrim passport as he was staying at accommodation that did not provide stamps; this is normal and acceptable behaviour. The hospitaleros were happy to oblige but enquired why he was not staying with them given his nationality. The Welshman took offence asking why there should be any obligation on him to stay at the English albergue. The English hospitaleros took greater offence and a short but heartfelt row ensued which (we can only assume) had more to do with ancient English-Welsh rivalries than a simple stamp. I soak up this venting and make sympathetic noises whilst secretly thinking that both parties had stoked this version of an old rivalry and desperately hoping she leaves me in peace.
After a rest it is time to shop and because the store owners grow some of their own produce there are fine organic tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers to be had along with tinned squid and a jar of chickpeas to make up dinner. This is a typical shopping list when there is no pilgrim meal on offer and I try to vary how these core ingredients are combined. Kitchens can be busy and hob space at a premium so a cold salad makes for a relaxed evening and on this night I am given some hot pasta in a tomato sauce by a young Italian couple who are proud of their culinary accomplishment. The joys of communal living.
Unsurprisingly there is no multiplex in Rabanal and so the church is popular with pilgrims looking for a night out. With the grieving process left behind on the meseta, I am left to enjoy the peace and tranquillity of this human scaled church perched on its ledge beneath the mountains. Evening prayers (Vespers) are in Latin with a mostly passive congregation soaking up the music sung by the monks who preside. I am surprised at the announcement before the start which asks for no cameras, but then understand as people come in late and treat the service as a photo opportunity. Given how well behaved my fellow walkers usually are, I am unsure what has prompted this sudden relapse. I decide that Compline is way past my end-of-day and retire at 8:30 pm when sleep comes easily.
The twenty-eight of September and I am the last one to start walking at 7:10 am. This is a pay-in-advance donativo albergue and the diligent hospitaleros had stressed the importance of a suitable donation to cover expenses as they held out the donation tin. I had been suitably generous the night before and I now look forward rather greedily to my English breakfast. Unfortunately, the Confraternity of St James in England has clearly decreed that this is an albergue of modesty and constraint. Breakfast is tea or instant coffee with bread and jam. When I look after myself and go to find a plate, I am firmly informed by the ever vigilant hospitaleros that a serviette will do. Feeling more than a little hen-pecked I fill up on sugary jam and stodgy bread to fuel me for the day ahead. I remind myself that part of the pilgrimage and being a pilgrim is to give thanks for whatever is given. This is in contrast to the tourist mantras of demand and consume.
It is inky black as I leave the last street light behind in Rabanal and the stars are bright and unusually fat. The last street light is actually located just out of town where the countryside starts and as I stood under its soft white glow it rather felt as if I'd just stepped out of the back of a wardrobe somewhere. My legs feel fresh and as I walk up the gentle incline, I am pleased I pushed on to Rabanal the day before to reach the foot of the mountains. In that morning tramp in the dark, I become aware, not for the first time, that my individual body parts have taken over discrete duties leaving me free to reflect or rest. My feet look after night vision in the dark, my legs look after walking pace, and my right shoulder sends its daily signal to my brain that it is still not happy. For once my brain takes notice and tells me to adjust the straps on my rucksack which I do. Having complained, my shoulder goes quiet and no doubt I'll find out tomorrow if the latest adjustment has worked.
At 9:00 am I reach the defining monument on the Camino Francés that is the Iron Cross or Cruz de Fero.
A simple iron cross is perched on a large pole. One of the most enduring traditions of the camino is for pilgrims to carry a stone from home and deposit it here. In that symbolic act they can relieve themselves of any burden they carry. For many pilgrims, myself included, the stone can be of less significance than stopping and pausing for reflection. I love the architecture of churches and cathedrals, Christopher Wren's re-building of the City of London churches following the Great Fire, the English Baroque of Nicholas Hawksmoor in London, and the history that is often on display as you see the effects of destruction and re-building over the centuries. Such buildings are designed to offer a sense of peace and sanctuary. The Iron Cross is set high up on an unassuming patch of the landscape avoiding the highest point in the area and in this simplicity and modesty seems to capture that sense of peace and sanctuary that can take master builders a century to build. As I approach it is clear that everyone is stopping, taking off their rucksacks and pausing to contemplate their own reasons for being there. I observe a middle-aged couple turn to each other and embrace as if over some great sorrow and I wonder at what loss brought them to this place. A young woman from Hong Kong is here for personal reasons and has also brought with her a small banner as democracy for Hong Kong was being fought for back home and she did not want to leave that fight behind. I ask if it is OK to take a photo. She says 'yes'. I take a photo.
Forcing myself to leave the sanctuary of the Iron Cross I continue the short distance to the highest point of the Camino Francés. My hand-written journal makes no reference to this significant landmark, perhaps because it was dwarfed by the Iron Cross and maybe I did not take the time to make the small diversion to reach the very summit. It has been a strength of my camino that I have walked my own way, at my own peace and I haven't had my head in the guidebook all day. I would have to accept that maybe I missed a few things on the way that I could make time for if I ever came back.
The decent was harder than the ascent being longer and steeper. This made it more telling when I came across an elderly man with a staff. The downhill path was rocky with natural, if uneven, steps and though it was no harder than walking down stairs he was having significant difficulty. I stop and assist by providing support on his non-staff hand and he instructs me in Spanish to walk one step in front. I assume this was so he would have a soft landing if he fell which was highly probable. We pass the steep section and part company until I come to the next steep section I wait and again assist. At the next steep section, we have separated again and looking back I see more pilgrims approaching him so I assume he will be cared for and so I continue. I try and imagine what would bring someone so frail to embark on such a journey. Had he walked from St Jean Pied de Port, Burgos, Leon, or was he out for one day tackling the hardest section he could find? I have no doubt that he arrived at his destination safely though the path from Rabanal is marked by a number of small monuments to people who have died on the camino. It is perhaps no surprise that people die in small numbers on the camino today. In the medieval age death was in many cases an expected outcome of the pilgrimage and a large number of hospitals were erected to provide basic food and shelter and these were supplemented by cemeteries. Pilgrims often embarked on their pilgrimage when they were close to death as a means to help secure their entry to heaven. Those with relatively good health and money were prey to bandits and those without money were reliant on charity for their sustenance. The local population were often happy to provide the charity and the act of giving helped to secure their own place in heaven. A win-win situation and one that still exists, albeit in a stylised form, ten hundred years later in the donativo system.
As I pass through the first village, I notice that the Belgium man and Italian couple from the night before are settled into a cafe and they give me a hearty wave and 'buen camino' as I pass. Yet again I walk too far and am fatigued when I get to Columbrianos just pass the large town of Ponferrada which has a modern sprawl of suburbs around the old medieval centre. From the guidebook, the albergue had the appearance of being connected to the small chapel it sits opposite but turns out to be a modern affair attached to a small cafe-bar. Having attended to shower, beer and laundry in that order I go in search of food and find that everything is closed so I sit in the pleasant albergue garden as the bar provides food from 7:00 pm though the menu does not appeal to me as it is pizza, scampi, chips and similar tourist fare.
Just as I start to regret not stopping at Ponferrada I find myself enjoying a lively dinner with a New Zealander keen to talk to someone, anyone, an Argentinian who spends her days on her mobile to work as that was a condition of her release, a young German man wise for his years, and a young South Korean woman travelling alone. The ringleader to the happy band that night was Charles who would introduce me to Kara two days later. The Argentinian had arrived late and was the surviving member of Charles' camino family with the others left behind on the camino. Her story that night was one of talking to work on her phone, missing camino directions and then walking along the A-6 autopista (Motorway) through a tunnel until the police picked her up.
The twenty-ninth of September and after a late night I finally start walking at 8:00 am. It is the time of year when the daylight reduces quickly with every passing day and I have now been walking sufficient days to notice this. At my current walking pace I have only six days to go before I will arrive in Santiago. I am in no rush to finish and if anything would like to prolong the journey. I stop for a rest at 11:00 am among the vineyards in peaceful solitude. This is a world of small vineyards hugging the slopes of small hills. Naturally, you stop for two minutes and the endless stream of pilgrims catch you up and this includes the Italian from the albergue in Viloria where we shared the wholesome paella with Colette, the American and the Irishman. He is always cheerful and waves as he passes not allowing the language barrier to get in the way of showing his joy. Moving on, I notice it is harvest time in the vineyards as I pass a small group of pickers getting organised alongside a small collection of ancient vehicles that will be used to transport the grapes. There is a old car, a tractor and trailer and something that resembles a Deux-Chevaux pickup truck; the pickup version of the classic Citroen 2CV car. Later that day I would pass a domestic garage on the village main street with its small wine press ready to accept the grapes for small scale production. Today's significant town is the delightful Villafranca del Bierzo which has a range of cafes and restaurants and though I treat myself to an ice cream I am itching to move on. Just out of town there is an option to take a diversion via a hill village to avoid some of the road and I opt for the quiet away from cars and other walkers. When you get to the fork in the road the options are visible, clear and stark. Stay on the flat or buckle up and walk up a forty-five degree gradient. This steep route rewards me with a lovely hillside walk rising up out of the Valcarce valley with no distractions other than the overly energetic Italian who must have stopped off somewhere as he passed me again with his trademark cheery wave. As I marvel at how quickly he passes me I realise that I had failed to top up my water bottle in the last town and being slightly dehydrated I am plodding along accordingly. Making these mistakes is fine but not recognising you have made them as you wander on as if in a trance is not really pardonable. I cross "Ramblers Association Walk Leader" off my list of potential retirement activities. As I make my way into the village of Pradela there was the usual clucking and crowing of chickens and a large market garden terrace with every sort of seasonal vegetable growing in large blocks as if this was either a small commercial venture or a collective run by the village. This soil served practical needs and there was no space for prize marrows as you have on British allotments. I find the albergue Lamas and am just in time to see the Italian finishing a beer before heading off. I am the first to arrive looking for a bed though it is already 3:00 pm. After receiving confirmation that there is a bed for me, I ask for two beers and am invited to sit down and rest as the family is finishing what appears to be a jovial lunch in the communal dining area. As I start to recover, Ana, the hospitalera, brings over a small slice of bread and tortilla. It is only when they sing Happy Birthday that I realise the occasion and my sweaty intrusion. Ana brings me a slice of birthday cake (an egg tart) and I draw on my four months of online Spanish lessons to say 'feliz cumpleanos'. I am pleased at any opportunity to use the Spanish language and it brings to mind an early camino experience when passing a large concrete wall I saw emblazoned the words 'leer mas', or 'read more'. There isn't much graffiti on the camino and I never could work out why someone would go out of their way, with a suitable spray can, to write this particular slogan. Sadly, the main graffiti you see is marker pen annotation of the formal camino signs. Again, I could not understand the motivation of a minority of pilgrims to deface signs with marker pen scribbling. Someone, somewhere, when packing their rucksack must have made a conscious decision along the lines of 'spare socks, clean pants, poncho and a fat waterproof marker pen for graffiti'. I am being a bit cynical as in some areas there are blank boards erected for people to leave messages.
Later when I had been shown my bed, I realised I was the only person staying in this remote ten bed albergue in the village on the hill side. It is early and I walk down the road the edge of the village. This doesn't take long and I find a spot where I can sit on a wall with a view along into the valley. An elderly man joins me and pauses. He points up the valley and says something. Scanning my limited Spanish vocabulary I draw a blank and my face reflects that. He points again and (I assume) repeats his words of wisdom. This time I follow his gaze and understand. The dark clouds - over there - and wind direction - coming from the clouds - tell me there is rain coming.
I ate alone that night with Ana in the kitchen and her daughter acting as waitress. Though I initially felt slightly self-conscious the food took over and I let myself enjoy the simple pleasure of a home cooked dinner. The soup was made from the local runner beans with the seeds and soft pods being used with the addition of potatoes. It had a rustic dull olive green appearance and tasted delicious. I guessed all the produce came from the local market garden and Ana confirmed this for me as she rather proudly boasted that the village had no supermarket. Next came a chicken stew with hearty chunks of sweetcorn on the cob and mixed vegetables. The chicken meat was dark, fatty and flavoursome and I wondered if this was the same bird that had made so much noise on my walk into the village earlier. Dessert was the usual vanilla custard and all washed down with a syrupy local red wine.
The thirtieth of September and though I am up early I take time to update my journal while I am rested and I also attend to my feet. My right heel in particular has blisters over old blisters and I take some care to dress it and secure with plasters before pulling on boots and snug up the laces to prevent rubbing. This strategy appears to be working for me as I can walk pain-free and my heels can repair themselves sufficiently over-night. A bowl of locally picked fruit stands in the albergue hall with a donation tin and I pack some for today's lunch. The night before, as soon as Ana had ascertained I would be leaving early like all the other crazy pilgrims, she issues clear instructions that when I left by the gated yard I should in no circumstances let the dog out as she did not want him to follow me to Santiago. Though the instructions were clear, they were in clear Spanish; luckily, I managed to pick out 'no haga', 'perro', and 'Santiago' and even I could make "do not dog Santiago" into a meaningful sentence. Unfortunately, my plan for a slick exit was hampered by my rucksack and the dog escaped ready to start his own camino. Holding the gate ajar I implored the wayward dog to go back to its home. As he frolicked around outside like a lamb in spring-time he cast a look at me that suggested he was not planning on giving up his freedom easily. There was a brief stand-off until the dog saw a cat. The dog did what came naturally and chased the cat. The cat did what came naturally and ran for cover behind me and into the closed yard I had just left with the dog still in hot pursuit. I did what came naturally and slamming the gate shut on the two friends headed onward to Santiago at pace.
Dropping down off the hillside I see there is a layer of mist below me spreading out like a flat endless ocean hiding the landscape beneath but with the higher hills peeking through to form tiny islands. On I walk downhill until I pass through the band of mist and into the clear air below. When I get to the valley floor I re-join the main camino path which at this point follows a main road, the N-IV, which still has a number of trucks rumbling past despite the new autopista, the A-6, that runs parallel to it and takes much of the traffic.
When I finally get off the main road I am walking with Darcy from Derby. If it has not been obvious, I am of course using aliases for the people I meet. She recounts her story which is one of a bad marriage from which she is just extracting herself. She was using the camino as time out to re-build her confidence and re-start her life. She talked about how her soon to be ex-husband had mocked her plan to walk five hundred miles and at how his comments had made her stronger and more determined to break free and do her own thing. His feedback to her, 'you couldn't walk to the end of the street let alone across Spain', said much more about his insecurities than her walking ability. She was definitely walking her own camino and her broad strategy was to walk around ten miles a day, stop at every cafe and collect as main stamps as possible. You need to get at least one stamp a day to prove how far you have walked and two stamps a day over the last one hundred kilometres though there is no upper limit. She had a plan and that was working for her and I reflected on my own clueless strategy for the camino which was to walk towards the west and hope I didn't accidentally miss Santiago. As we enter the next town, Vega de Valcarce, we agree to stop for a café con leche and she pops into the nearby pharmacy to pick up medication. After twenty minutes of sipping my coffee and taking a rare look at my pristine guidebook she finally joins me and I get a second cup. She proudly shows me her collection of stamps (which span three pilgrim passports) and her beat-up guidebook with its annotations and scribbles. Sat in that cafe in the peace and quiet of the camino before Sarria, I was more than a little envious of how Darcy had engaged with the camino. She had embraced the camino and all it had to offer her and for however long she would walk Darcy had made it the essence of her life. Though I was doing the camino my way and getting a lot from that, I secretly wished that 'my way' was at a slower pace. When Darcy is ready, we head off and as we hit the climb up to O' Cebreiro she saves her breath for the climb and we part ways. This is a gradual climb from 600 metres at Vega de Valcarce to 1,300 metres at O' Cebreiro. On the way an enterprising have setup a stable and offer a horseback ride up most of the climb. The stable has its 'merchandise' out on the road on full display and a dozen horses are arranged with heads grazing on the left-hand verge and the body stretched across the road. The walker has no other option than to navigate the rear end of the row of well-behaved horses. It is a long climb with increasingly splendid views.
There are magnificent mountain views as I finally complete my ascent. There is a handy picnic site with benches and tables and I make use of this to finish some bread and tinned mussels I have been carrying for too long and the fruit from the last albergue which feels a long way away. O' Cebreiro has a small tourist centre with examples of the local cone shaped thatched roofs, gift shops and cafes and comes as a slight shock as it is a peak that also has a main road with the attendant tourist mini-buses and tourists. I quickly walk on through.
From the hamlet of O' Cebreiro it is a short undulating walk to another pilgrim monument. This is a landscape that has more in common with the Austrian Tyrol than the Spanish plains we have left behind. The landscape is so beautiful I was imagining of the von Trapp family coming over the hill when, four minutes later, the von Trapp family came over the hill. There were four of them, on bikes with trailers comprising mum, dad and two daughters aged around twelve and fourteen. They passed me on the slight downhill with their beaming faces and we all then hit a slight uphill gradient and the twelve-year old started to slow down then wobble precariously; as she was at my side, I provided a small push. With this extra impetus she started peddling, forcing me to speed up, causing her to peddle harder and before long we were both hurtling up the hill at a pace the girl was delighted with, but one that I could not sustain. Fortunately for me, mum had stopped at an ever steeper section ahead so just as my lungs were about to give out the family came to a halt. That modest exertion had nearly killed me and as I paused to admire the pilgrim monument, I made solemn vow to get fit when I got home. Take up running or something. As it turned out I did take up running and soon joined in weekly park runs. The family catches up and I find that they are from New Zealand, they love the outdoors and it is clear that the two girls are thoroughly enjoying their cycling holiday. Dad thanks me for the earlier help and I try and sound nonchalant in my 'that's OK', as if running up hills with a ten-kilo rucksack pushing a bike was all in a day's walking.
Today was shaping up to be a tiring and eventful day though as I continue the gradual decent to wherever I would stop I did not know how long.
Five miles from the town of Triacastela I catch-up with Charles from the albergue two nights ago and he introduces me to his companion for the day, Kara from Australia. We walk on together and pick up Louis, a Brazilian, who was attending to blisters. It is 4:00 pm and getting late. Though this is day twenty for me and included a long climb I am feeling relaxed, cheery, and my legs are still working. Charles maintains a lively banter and as a father, this drifts into the subject of childbirth. Kara, a mother herself, keeps her own experiences to herself as Charles expounds on his chosen subject from a male perspective. This includes a description of how he satisfied his wife's desire to eat her placenta after the birth of their second child. Charles assures us midwifes are perfectly happy to provide a 'take-away' service for the raw ingredient but the preparation is down to you. There are recipes readily available if you choose to google, and it took a large amount of alcohol to be consumed before he could venture into the kitchen. Charles had remembered I was travelling with no phone and he had made some attempts over the last two days to be less connected. However, he still had the sense to book accommodation ahead and as we entered the hamlet of Fillobal he said farewell to us as Kara was booked into a place in Triacastela. Space permitting Fillobal would have made a good stopping point for me but something drew me on and I continued with Kara and Louis. Without Charles to regale us with light-hearted stories Kara quickly switched to her experiences over the last two years. I was hugely impressed with her ability to slide the conversation to her chosen topic in a seamless manner; this was becoming a camino trend as people made use of any new faces as a fresh opportunity to tell, re-tell and refine their story and in doing so help their process of healing.
Kara had a four-year old daughter and had spent the last two years being the sole carer with help from family and friends following her husband's suicide. She had been devastated but had to work through the trauma and look after their daughter. She was a working mum which meant a large amount of childcare juggling and though she had wider support that could only go so far and her experience was one of having to support and nurture her daughter through an impossible period in their lives. I was in awe of this young woman as she spoke of how she had tried to make the family death real to her daughter, who in turn had wanted to have the conversations. The daughter could only think in small chunks so the mother had to be ready to field the questions and be able to switch contexts from biscuit baking to bereavement and back to happy biscuit baking in a matter of minutes. The two had supported each other in a very real way. Kara had already worked out her life plan which involved a change in career and a simpler lifestyle centred on family. Being able to take time out on the camino was her way of finding some space and time for herself and that must have been a hard decision to make, though as she commented, she was thinking of the long term and she needed to be strong for that. As Kara came to the end of her story, we came to the town of Triacastela. With vague plans to meet up for dinner she went to her albergue and I found myself stood in the street with Louis feeling drained and exhausted. It was 7:00 pm and I had started walking at 7:40 am with few breaks; the twenty-six miles, the long climb and lack of water in the afternoon all caught up with me as I stood their numb. I tried to summon some energy to act and find a bed. At 7:00 pm I may be lucky to find anything. I'd need to get my guidebook out. Where was the next albergue if Triacastela was completo (full). I become aware that the Spanish speaking Louis is on his mobile phone and when he hangs up he says he has found beds for us both. He leads me the short way to the albergue, finds someone to take our money and in a daze, I follow him to the dormitory. For once I forego the usual beer and rely on water to re-hydrate then go through the normal routine. I am still exhausted when it comes to finding food and as I don't have the energy to seek out Kara, I fall into the nearest restaurant for their standard pilgrim meal. With my journal updated on the day's events I managed to record that the starter was chickpea and pork soup then I suppose I gave in to the wine.
The first of October and a new month. Luckily, I remember my laundry (wet from overnight rain) as I prepare to leave and finally get going at 8:00 am. The sun is often late creeping into the sheltered valleys as we are now in Galicia. Today is a day of undulating countryside not unlike a Dorset landscape of drovers' paths through a lush green landscape. My feet and legs are tired and aching from the previous day and I let my legs set the pace. This is dairy country and the smell of cattle follows me all day. When I pass though Sarria I stop at a church to get a stamp for my pilgrim passport as we are now within one hundred kilometres of Santiago and need two stamps a day. There is a volunteer in the church ready to stamp pilgrim passports and I get to dust off my French again when I am asked to explain to a French pilgrim that she needs two stamps a day from here to Santiago. I am also given a booklet which suggests key churches that need to be visited with a vague hint that this is a requirement to be awarded the compostela. As there is no unifying authority for pilgrimage it is not unusual to encounter different interpretations and advice. In this case I think some local body was trying to encourage what they saw as the right approach and perhaps a boost to church donation trays. From Sarria the way is marked by tree lined lanes and woodland paths and is very special in an unassuming way. Apart from the stunning landscape, the most remarkable feature of today is that I don't run into anyone I know. It is as if the camino knows I need some quiet space after yesterday's marathon though I still cover twenty-two miles before arriving at Mercadoiro and my albergue for the night. This upmarket albergue is twelve euros for the night and boasts a broad lawn with stunning views over the Galician countryside which you can take in while draped on a sun lounger.
The pilgrim meal that night is eight euros and is good if basic. I sit with a pair of German brothers and a woman from Slovakia. The Germans are a little too keen to talk politics as it was the autumn of 2019 when the UK was on the brink of exiting the Europe Union. They eventually see I am not interested but not until they have made their grand point which is that the UK had pleaded to join the union at a time when the UK was in economic crisis and needed the support of Europe. That took four years of negotiation before membership was attained in 1973. Their well-rehearsed question to me was deftly slipped in as a polite enquiry, as if it was an after-thought. 'So when do you think the UK will ask to re-join?'. As I ponder how much baiting of UK citizens this pair of brothers have engaged in since St Jean Pied de Port I give them my best poker face before turning my attention to the neglected Slovakian. Perhaps I should have been more sympathetic to their cause as Germany is probably in the top five EU countries to be impacted economically by the UK's departure. The Slovakian woman was in her mid-50s and travelling alone and (to my shame) six months later as I write up my journal, I cannot remember what we talked about. So, let us look at some statistics instead as I have been pleased and impressed to see women well represented on the camino and unlike many of the men have been out on the road healing themselves and wearing that badge proudly instead of hiding behind conversation on how to avoid blisters. So says the man about to talk statistics. In 2004 the camino saw 100,383 men and 79,487 women arrive in Santiago for their compostela and in 2019 the numbers were 177,803 women and 169,782 men. The numbers have nearly doubled over the fifteen years and women now outnumbered men overall. Women also outnumbered men month on month in the warmer months from mid-March to mid-October with men seeming to have a greater preference than women for the less busy, but wetter, winter months. Camino statistics are difficult as people start at different points and can finish at different points though Santiago is something of a constant.
I am now on the home straight with less than one hundred kilometres to go. Sketching out the days it will take me to walk out to Finisterre, up to Muxía and back to Santiago it is clear I will have time as I will likely arrive in Santiago on the fourth of October and my train ticket out is for the nineteenth of October. I was starting to hear stories of losing queues to get the compostela in Santiago so even if I lose a day or so I have plenty of time in hand. I have given up trying to artificially slow down and perhaps that will happen on my second pilgrimage to Finisterre.
Chapter 7. Arriving