Saturday, June 9, 2012
Queridos amigos,
The day starts overcast, chilly, windy. It stays that way all day long. It rains a bit at the beginning. I stop in a cemetery to put on my rain gear.
Left a lock under a rose bush in front of the Mosteirio da Madalena, an ancient convent.
The walking surface today is ideal. Mainly packed sand; easy on the feet.
A day of animals, gardens, well-shaded, stone-lined pathways, mirlo concerts, a profusion of wildflowers. Many pictures taken
A Stone House by the Side of the Road
A woman, who looked French or Italian, passes me. At a perplexing divide, she goes right. I see her talk to the driver of a car heading toward us, who stops for her, then she continues on. I stop the same driver and ask for directions; he says go the other way.
I do. It is the right way. Half hour later the woman appears again. She is French, speaks no English. We are able to determine that she has come from LePuy, 740 kilometers beyond Spain. She asks if I am going to the sea. I am not. She is.
As I approached a farm house, I see a young, pretty pilgrim resting in a chair, her trekking poles next to her. As I get closer, I see she is young and beautiful. Coal black hair, peaches and cream complexion, truly beautiful. But she is no pilgrim, and those are no trekking poles: they are crutches. She gets an especially sunny ‘Buenos dias!’
A man, a woman, three dogs, and 15 cows enter the road ahead of me. No easy way around them so I fall in step with the procession. I get into herding so much that I completely miss the yellow arrows at a fork in the road. Finally the woman wheels around and shouts, ‘No! Arriba!’
The Herd I Followed
I backtrack and regain the correct path.
An old pilgrim riding a bicycle with small (13 inch?) wheels, heavily laden with gear marked with the cross of St. James, passes me. One of the few men with skinnier legs than mine. As he climbs a hill, a bottle of some kind of juice drops off and rolls down the path toward me. I shout several times to get through to him, and return his bottle.
As I walk through these tiny villages, the smell of animals is pervasive.
At Morgade, roughly the halfway point for the day, I stop for a large cafe con leche, ham and eggs. When I pay with a 20 euro note, the pretty hostess asks in perfect English, Do you have 70 cents? I do. I compliment her English and ask her where she learned it. In school, she says.
I eat outside and enjoy the interactions of a family that center on Anton, about 3 years old. The grandfather is especially affectionate.
There is still talk of rain, so I put on my poncho without putting my arms in the sleeves; just hang it off the back of my pack, ready to slip into should rain appear.
The chilly air and wind plus the great walking surface make this an easy, fun day.
As I approach my destination, I play leapfrog with a woman walking alone. After I pass her on a downhill stretch, she calls out to me. My poncho had blown off; I hadn’t noticed. She helped me get it back on, this time with arms in sleeves.
I crossed a very large river to enter Portomarin. It is the first body of water I have encountered this trip where I cannot see the bottom.
One Entrance into Portomarin
My hotel is a good one; the furniture is light and graceful. One wall is all windows, overlooking a range of valleys and mountains. Over the beds, sketches of nudes.
Bedroom of My Hotel
When I first started looking at the path I would take for the Camino I was a bit disappointed to learn that the total length was some 490 miles. 500 miles sounded so much better. Then I noticed that the author of my guidebook included an interesting calculation. He measured all the ascents and descents of the path, the hypotenuses, if you will, which added up to a mile or more on certain stretches. I add all these re-calculations and am reassured that the total is well over 500 miles.
Tomorrow I plan to trek some 17 miles. This is no time to slow down.
Saludos calurosos a todos,
John
Portomarin===>Palas de Rei
| NEXT: Portomarin===>Palas de Rei