Posts from the 'Camino de Santiago' Category
Traversing the Meseta
We cross fields of green on a red clay track that winds to the horizon's azure sky. There's no rain on Spain's high plains this week, not in daytime at least, but in places the damp mud clings and is carried ahead, heavy on the boots of the trudging pilgrim army.
Four years on from my first trek across the endless flat Meseta, this is an unworldly time of morning mists, lush crops and diversions with new companions to unfamiliar villages.
In the empty landscape there's just the constant heartbeat of boots on gravel; companionship over cervesa; secrets shared in a brief collision of lives that leave a deep imprint of sound and touch.
Walking away always takes longer.
Reflections of Santiago
We walked in single file, upwards through a maze of trees, strung out like pilgrims on the road to Santiago. Music whispered from the branches , light played on ruins and, once inside up crumbling steps, candles Read more
Savouring the last leg to Santiago
I ate Pimientos de Padrón in Padrón.
And I enjoyed the little peppers as much as I loved the town of Padrón which is saturated in the legends of St James. It's here he supposedly preached in Spain for the first time, in a quiet spot high up on the hill overlooking the town. I walked up to the simple statue and cross that marks the spot on the rock far away from the bustle of the town below. And I felt a peace there that's been missing on most of this camino.
I felt it less in the Igrexa de Santiago church which houses another of the great legends, the original stone mooring post to which the boat carrying St James was tied at the quayside on the river. And, at the other end of the Saint's story there's a roadside monument showing the arrival of the his sarcophagus as it passed through.
In the morning, after breakfast in a pilgrim cafe by the ancient stone bridge, four of us set off to walk together on the last leg of our journey. There were roads and traffic and noise, but there were trees and bridges and peaceful places too. We weren't in a rush for the walking to end and met friends who also stopped countless times before they took the last steps into Santiago.
And when I turned a corner on the medieval streets and the familiar sharp spires of the cathedral rose into view I felt the smile spreading over me. It felt like coming home.
A Window on the World
We were sitting in a remote village cafe when Albrecht rolled up his sleeves to show me the multiple red rows of bed bug bites.
"No more albergues for me," he said.
Of course. A lightbulb moment. I knew at once that there would be no more albergues on this trip for me either. I needed sleep, peace, somewhere clean and time for all the blotchy bites on my face, neck and shoulders to heal. Late that afternoon I checked in to a small hotel in Caldas de Reis, peeled off my pack, lay on the crisp white bed and listened to the silence. It was the best 28 euros I've ever spent.
Later I drank beers and ate with my Canadian, German and Swedish friends. We soaked tired feet and legs in the public hot springs of this pretty spa town and when it got dark we drank hot chocolate in the bread shop and ate yet more pastries. And then I waved them goodnight and retreated to the calm of my solitary space.
All was well with the world when I set off next morning. And when my journey was hijacked it got even better. A man called from the window of a school building as I was walking past and asked if I'd come in and meet the children. "It's our window on the world," he said. " We invite pilgrims in to tell us about their countries. It's our project. Please speak to the chicos in Scottish."
Two Croatian girls came in too and I've no idea what they told the kids (in Croatian) but I turned to stereotypes and mimed bagpipes, described shaggy Highland cows with long horns, did a little Scottish dance and – for the teacher – focused on whisky. And then the kids crowded round for photographs, we exchanged email and Facebook details, the teacher showed us his scrapbook of postcards from every corner of the globe, we all hugged and five minutes later we set off back on our journeys.
We hadn't even taken off our packs, but it had been the most magical moment of the week. I've fallen back in love with the camino.
Camino Confession
I took the bus.
I know, I know. Call myself a pilgrim? A hard core walker? The same person who walked every inch of the 500 miles across Spain with a hanging-off toe and aching hips and knees? Maybe I've gone soft, but on this occasion I just didn't see the point.
The plan was devised late at night after reading the guidebook description of the next day's route which runs through industrial estates and along the side of busy roads most of the way to Redondela. For me, the compensation for tired legs and feet, sleepless nights of neighbouring snoring, suspect mattresses, and the trials of bugs and living in close proximity with other people is the prospect of spending the daylight hours walking alongside ripening grapes, over old stone bridges, past churches and crosses or by the side of empty wheat fields. But on the leg ahead there appeared to be no promise of anything other than tarmac, concrete, noise and danger.
We left the albergue before 7am, paid our 2.75 to the bus driver and sat in luxurious comfort in the early morning darkness for thirty short minutes, watching huge yellow Camino signs flash by, warning motorists to be aware of walkers. Any tingling of guilt that I should be out there plodding along to the accompaniment of speeding machines quickly dissipated. The journey was over too soon and it was still dark when we jumped down and unloaded our packs from the deep recesses of the bus then set off, making our way through the streets and out of town.
There were some bonny stretches today, but the last couple of kilometres before Pontevedra were along the edge of the busy road into the city so I decided to take the alternative river walk recommended in the guidebook. This woodland route was longer, but I'd walked only 18km and it was still early in the day. I could see that everyone ahead of me stayed on the main road, but just as I turned left onto the quieter route I met Sheila and Dan, two Americans from Oregon, and a limping German girl who had also decided to follow the track.
It was still in the woods; shady and quiet among the trees. We chatted for a while but I walked faster than the others so eventually I left them far behind and walked on, happy to wander alone along the meandering path. There wouldn't be much peace in the big dormitory which lay ahead.
A man suddenly appeared, running awkwardly towards me and straight past. I noticed he was wearing ordinary clothes and shoes rather than running gear. I walked on. Then a few minutes later he reappeared behind me, overtook me and jogged back into the woods in the direction I was headed. Maybe I have an overactive imagination. Maybe I've read too many accounts of lone women having bad experiences on the camino, but I had a sense that something wasn't right. There was no one else around and I wasn't happy about walking on. I stopped in a clearing and waited a while then began walking back to find the others. The woods were quiet and I wondered if they'd changed their minds and returned to the shorter route but eventually they appeared, the German girl limping worse than ever. They hadn't seen the "runner" at all.
We walked on together at a snail's pace, all the way to the hostel. The man may have been entirely innocent but the experience unnerved me. Maybe the noisy edges of motorways are safer after all.
Reaching the high (and low) point
Camino Portuguese Day 4
The map indicated a mountain of Himalayan proportions; a near vertical climb to the top of the Alto da Portela Grande. It was a route grandly described as a "high pass over the mountain ridge".
And then I looked carefully at the contour lines and realised the summit was only 405m high, which in Scotland barely counts as a hill at all. However a heavy pack meant the rutted track through the trees was heart-thumpingly steep, and the Spanish cyclists who'd whizzed past me 30 minutes earlier shouting a cheery "Buen Camino" had to lift their bikes and manoeuvre them shoulder-high over the rocks. Their noisy machismo and bravado had long since evaporated by the time I'd caught up.
I took a deep breath, changed gear and left them in my wake, pausing for just a few seconds at the stone Cruz dos Francese in the woods near the top. The final push at last brought views into the Coura river valley far below.
But there was no time to linger. More bites on my face this morning meant I needed to reach laundry facilities where I could boil bedding and clothes then roast any lingering bugs in a tumble drier. It took some imaginative miming to explain to the Portuguese manager of the next albergue that I would only stay if he had the necessary machines. We went on a tour and found the essential white appliances then (since i was the first person at the hostel) I stood right there, removed my clothes and emptied them and the contents of my pack into the contraption and turned the dial to maximum. I scurried away in a towel to the shower to wait until they'd done their work.
And so to the bliss and peace of a clean bed. I'd chosen a quiet corner away from the known snorers but when I returned to the dorm at 9.30pm I discovered the neighbouring bunk was now occupied by the notorious Portuguese Snorer, a man many people have changed hostels to avoid. True to form his bed was already vibrating to deep guttural roars.
I rammed earplugs deep into my head and pulled the pristine bedding over my face. The promise of peace was destroyed. This was going to be another long night .
Toiling towards Ponte de Lima
I woke to find three itchy red weals on my face. Another two on my neck. And an ugly, angry sprinkling over my shoulders.
Welcome to Camino life where the most pressing issues of the day are an endless computation of sprains, pains, blisters and bites. Just like "ordinary" life there are good and bad days on the road, and this one wasn't starting too well.
I applied ointment from my pack, stuffed my sleeping bag and clothes in plastic bags in case of contamination, strapped on my rucksack … and walked on.
The initial diagnosis was bedbugs. They're endemic on the Camino and like most pilgrims I suffered three years ago on the Camino Frances. A row of three bites in the morning is usually a clue that they've feasted on blood for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But these bites look different. "Mosquitos?" suggested the man behind the counter in the minimercado, the closest the first village had to a farmacia. "Or spiders?" I bought some mosquito bite ointment… and walked on.
A chocolate croissant from the hot bread shop on the way to Balugâes distracted me for a while and propelled me past the popular albergue near Lugar do Corgo, although I did look longingly at its welcoming sign. Then it was onwards for hours across hot, flat farmlands and under trailing vines to the beautiful Ponte de Lima.
The albergue was all the way through town on the far side of the bridge and the beds up a cruel two flights of stairs. I badly needed a shower to wash away sweat, dirt and bugs but instead I lay on the floor for half an hour and rested my legs up the wall as the dormitory slowly filled with hot, smelly pilgrims.
I then spend most of a restless night doing yoga to the accompaniment of a cacophony of grunting and snoring. I stretched seized shoulders, attempted to lloosen a tight spine and neck, and applied a growing concoction of potions to my deteriorating complexion.
And all through the wee small hours I questioned precisely why I was subjecting my body to such sleeplessness and discomfort.
Tomorrow might be one of those good days.
Life and death on the Portuguese
Monastery or not, the bluebottle didn't stand a chance.
The plump hospitalera grabbed my Brierley guide to the Camino Portuguése, took aim, swotted the insect in one deadly swoop, scraped it off the reception table and handed back the stained book with a satisfied grunt.
You can't afford to be too sensitive when the price of a bed is €5 and the tiny black-clad lady takes you by the arm and opens every cupboard of the kitchen to show you her pots, plates and marmalades. And then hangs out of a top floor window to point the way to the "supermercado" and mimes what can be bought on its shelves.
And so began my first night on the Camino, in the Mosteiro de Vairão, a monastery founded in the eleventh century which now hosts road-weary pilgrims. All I needed for dinner after a nerve-jangling walk on the edge of fast traffic was wine and a taste of the marmalade on a bread roll, from the less than "super" mercado.
It will take time to adjust to being a pilgrim again. My legs feel strong after a summer of climbing, but walking on roads and cobbles is nothing like the spring of heather and moorland. And I packed with care, yet the backpack weighs heavy on my shoulders and I'm constantly adjusting and readjusting the straps to find a comfortable fit.
But the sun has transported me back to summer, my boots are eating up the miles and the characters on the road entertain and amaze. The young Dutchman now remembered as "The Boy Wizard" carried a massive pack that was five times heavier than mine yet he claimed to be "flowing with synchronicity".
He did slow down when we reached the first hill. And I haven't seen him now for some time.
Another Way to Santiago
I thought the Camino had eluded me this year.
The urge to climb high and view the world from Scottish peaks and sleep in green corrie campsites filled my head and heart all spring and summer. It absorbed every scrap of my energy and enthusiasm – and a lot of time when I should really have been working.
And yet. And yet.
Triggered by photographs, long shadows on walls or roads and contact with pilgrim friends on three continents, El Camino has lurked and tugged at my imagination. It's three years since I first set foot on the Way from St Jean Pied de Port and there hasn't been a day since when I haven't reflected on that journey, the people I met and the mark it made on my life.
And now, almost without warning, my backpack is loaded and my heather-scratched boots are patiently waiting at the door. My passport and guidebook are laid out on the table and the departure for my pilgrimage in the footsteps of St James is imminent.
This time I'll walk along the camino portugués, along the route reputedly walked by Sant Iago himself when he first preached his gospel. Poignantly it's also the way his body was carried back to be buried in the site now known as Santiago de Compostella.
I'm hoping for a Buen Camino.
Still following arrows
The temperature in Sweden's forests is sub zero, it's slippery underfoot and thin ice is setting in swirling patterns on the lakes. There's no scorching Meseta sun or cafe con leche around every corner and the paths are quiet and empty. Spain is thousands of miles away, yet the companionship of camino family and recalled memories of that pilgrimage to Santiago feels close.
Where next, yellow arrows?