Woodswoman Walking

Wednesday, October 7, 2015.

Okay, today’s the day.  A short walk, less than five km, and I will be at the foot of the steps to the Cathedral de Santiago de Compostela.  No breakfast at the Polish albergue today, so I head to the closest bar, and Laurie and Salvadore will meet me there.  This bar has the best bread I’ve tasted on the entire Camino, round soft loaves, and I buy two of them to take with me, as well as consuming one with cheese and prosciutto (serrano ham in Spain) for breakfast.

Laurie and Salvadore do the same, and then we begin.  Almost immediately the path takes us through ugly, bugly areas . . . literally a walk over an interstate, and into the industrial area of Santiago.  Then the outskirts with lots of banks and gas stations and electrical parts store . . . not at all like either of my Camino paths, but certainly typical of a large city.  Gotta get through the ugly to get to the historical, at least in European large cities.

On the Camino Frances, the strong recommendation from John Brierley’s book was a bus through the entrance to Burgos and Leon, and even on the Norte, getting out of Bilbao and Gijon was ugly, with recommendations to take the metro from Bilbao to Areeta/Portugalete and a short bus or taxi out of the worst part of industrial Gijon.  But for the Santiago last march it’s just unthinkable to taxi in when we’ve all walked so far and for so long,  So here we go.

It really only takes about 90 minutes to get into some semblance of the old city, and this year, I’m not greeted with yellow construction barriers blocking off the real entry to the Cathedral.  Laurie and Salvadore break away from me at the turn for the Seminario MENOR (not my Seminario MAYOR) and we agree to meet later this afternoon at a designated place I know, just down from the office where we will all get our Coomplstelas, the certificate of completion for whatever Camino each of us has walked.

A good glimpse of the Cathedral in Santiago

People gathering along the side steps of the Cathedral. At the top, a bar with outdoor tables . . . feeding the arriving masses

The stiff, kneeling supplicants are still around the Cathedral.

Some of these kneeling beggars even have a backpack or a blanket folded nicely under their knees.  Here and there a morose old woman with a black cape and babushka, holding out a paper cup, shaking it, saying in a dolorous voice, “Por favore . . . por favore . . . ”  And the wandering street beggars, most of whom are fairly well clothed, are everywhere, more intrusive, often coming right up to you in an almost intimidating manner. A shame.  Just as everywhere else, you can’t tell which ones are truly suffering and which ones go home to the quantities of money they make from these forays.

I give money to street musicians but not to beggars.  At home, I am gathering the habit of taking a sandwich and a bottle of water to people who claim they have nothing to eat.  The truly homeless are grateful for the food and I feel better than giving the a bit of money, frankly.  But the kneeling ones don’t have signs.  Just a long stiff frame and two hands out for money.

The line at the Pilgrim’s office is long and out the door curling around the Via do Vilar.  I decide to wait until tomorrow or later tonight when the line is shorter.  Wasn’t even sure I would get a Compostela this year.  I have one, and my Camino Credenciale, with all the stamps, is again the most important to me, but now I have a second.  Actually a third, because someone told me about a St. Francis of Assisi Compostela, commemorating the 600th or 800th anniversary of St Francis’ walk into Santiago.  I walked on a stone sidewalk behind my Seminario to a lovely church of St. Francis, down the long inner pathway on the left side of the pews to a sign that said “Sacristy”.  There was an old priest, delighted to have a visit from pilgrims who have heard about this particular compostela.  He sits for two hours in the morning and two hours in the early evening so he can give these special certificates to those who come looking for them.

First tasks are to pick up the things I mailed to myself a few weeks ago.  I find Ivar Revke’s office, and pick up a box of items I decided I could live without . . . the things I mailed from San Sebastian on August 31.  I discover that Ivar and his wife lived in Fort Collins for two years and worked at CSU.  Small world.

Next I go to the Correos, the post office, and get a small blister pack I sent Castro Urdiales on September 7.  Easy, and I’m relieved.  I take my packages back to my little monastic room and go out into the old city again.  Now I wander the streets and I’m surprised by how much I remember from last time.  The shabby old Hospidale Santa Cruz, where Ria and I stayed the first two nights we were in Santiago two years ago.  Another bleah . . . nice old man who runs the place, but a depressing set of rooms and a very old bathroom down the hall.  Not any more for me.

A favorite bakery, the little grocery store, a restaurant where Cristel, Ria and I had lunch two years ago, etc.  The bagpipes being played in the tunnel from my side of the Cathedral.  A variety of street musicians.  And more of those kneeling supplicants scattered around the blocks.

I meet Laurie and Salvadore a bit later than we had planned, but they seem to be the kind of free spirits for whom time has a wiggly meaning.   We return to “my” Seminario, sit in the common room and have a coffee, a beer, and Salvadore has his favorite, a glass of cold milk with a half glass of orange juice poured into it.  BLEAH!  He says it’s delicious and a Mexican tradition.  Maybe one day I’ll try it.  But I’m surprised the milk doesn’t curdle immediately when the orange juice hits it.

I have food in my pack, left over from the most recent “no food” days, and I have bought a pack of ham and a pack of cheese in the little grocery store.  For dinner, I stay in the Common Room, practically my living space for the next few days, and have a glass of wine from the bar and my ham and cheese with the fabulous roll I bought this morning.

Writing in earnest now, though I’ll soon find that with a full house at this residence, the wifi will prove slower than useful.  But at least I can write on my Word doc and add photos later.  First night after the long haul, nearly six full weeks, even with the distances I skipped.  My body knows I put in at least 400 hard km, and another 150 or more that were not so hard.  Fewer total km this time than last, but four times the effort for at least half of it.  So I bow to myself in the mirror.

One of several ‘statues” around the Cathedral, drawing pilgrims, tourists, and money

For those of you who follow, especially who receive my posts on your e-mail, lately I notice that when I edit a post,  the final version does not always show up in the original e-mail to myself, but does show up on the website itself.  So if you have the time, patience, and inclination, you might click on the very bottom of your e-mailed daily post from me, where it has the URL.  Then you’ll get “the whole package”.

And while I’m at it, i will apologize for any typos, grammar glitches, punctuation errors.  It’s been more than enough to keep up with the events of each day, and now I try to read the write aloud to myself before I post it, but sometimes . . . shit still happens.

And finally, I would like to thank everyone who has taken an interest in my journey this year (and the last one as well).  It feels good (most of the time) to know others are sharing my walk, good times and bad.

I’m not finished writing . . . another week in Santiago, including the final day’s walk, and I’m working on all of that, but I realized today that this most recent post published before I was ready (again) so I went back to edit, and it only shows up if you refresh the web page, not just if you read the message in your e-mail.  For those of you who read on FB, I think you get “the final answer.”

Now back to work!

Tuesday, October 6, 2015.

Breakfast this morning at the private albergue in Santa Irene, and then it’s ponchos again.  Laurie (now this is the new Laurie . . . soon I’ll see Fort Collins Laurie, Laurie D.  I think this new Laurie is Laurie W.)  and Salvadore leave at about the same time I do, and we walk together most of the way to Monte De Gozo.  Laurie has LONG legs, so she goes faster, while Salvadore and I mosey along.  The rain stops after three hours or so, and everything is easier after that.  I’ve decided I definitely will stop in Monte de Gozo today, about 18 km from Santa Irene, and less than 5 km from the Cathedral in Santiago.  I want to “walk in” rested, and it’s supposed to be fairly nice tomorrow.  At least no rain for a day or two.

This stretch isn’t fabulous visually, but there are a few sights that catch my eye:

Don’t know exactly what it is, but I liked it, especially against the oncoming blue sky

Someone’s very well-made little altar, complete with arrow and a figure inside the wooden cage

Salvadore and I walk a bit behind Laurie again, but I know we are heading toward a good place to get some food.  Just before we turn off the road, we see this man . . .

Someone on a very slow “camino” He must be 90, but walks at a slow, shaky but steady pace, and his own stick

I head toward the Casa and restaurant, but Salvadore checks with the man to see if he needs help.  A very considerate gesture, but the man looks like he’s doing fine, and he probably walks this road every day.  He pretty much tells Salvatore this and thanks him, I imagine.

And as I approach the Casa de Santiago (?) , I see this familiar sign:

A familiar sign . . . but now I will see many of them, leading all the way to the Cathedral in Santiago

Finally, I get my large salad and some orange juice, and oh, yes, some Tarta de Santiago.  An excellent lunch.  Several small groups of pilgrims stop here for the last real meal before the final little push to the end.  Laurie has heard about a Polish albergue in Monte de Gozo and she is determined to find it.  No one seems to have heard about it but a week or more ago, she met two older women, sisters, who are headed there, and one of them has a daughter who will be a hospitalero there for awhile.

We continue our walk, and along the side of the path, I see what seems to be an empty cardboard candy box, red and white with a bluebird in a circle in the middle.  I am about to make a comment about littering when Salvadore says he thinks it’s a cell phone.  I stop to look and it is definitely someone’s phone.  So I pick it up, much like I picked up that women’s Keen Sandal on my last Camino.  Not sure how I’ll find the owner, but perhaps someone will walk back to see what happened to it.

Just like the Keen Sandal incident, Laurie has asked a group of women ahead of us if any of them lost their phone.  No, no, they all claim.  No one has lost a phone in this group.  So she continues to walk, but the group is waiting for us as we approach.  “Are you the people who found the cell phone?”  one of them asks.  “I think it’s mine.”

“What color is the case?” I say.  “White and red and blue,” says the woman.  So I hand it to her, she hugs me joyously and with great relief, and wants to have her friends take a photo of us.  Really “Deja Vu all over again” as they say.  Now we are all walking in a group, and we come upon the concrete Camino statue I’ve been waiting for. We take turns photographing one another.

She lost her phone on the path. I spotted it, Salvadore recognized it as a cell phone, and here she is, a happy walker again . . .

Laurie and Salvadore

Here I am. Same statue, different clothing, different year, but a happy peregrino., arms brown like a farmer’s

We are nearly to Monte de Gozo and haven’t seen anything about the Polish albergue.  Laurie is far ahead of us now, but finally, just before the huge old Monte de Gozo albergue is a small sign that points left “200 m” indicating the place we’re searching for.  Laurie has already been there, signed up the three of us, and left her pack and poles, apparently to come looking for us on our way, but she took a “short cut” which completely missed the road we were on, so she and Salvadore played about a half hour or more of hunt and peck, hide and seek before they were reunited in our little bunk room.  And the daughter who is to be the hospitalero is a young woman whom I met in the Arzua albergue two nights ago.  Small world.

So tomorrow we will arrive.  I always remember the quote , attributed to everyone from Robert Louis Stevenson to the Little Prince, but it doesn’t matter who said it.  “Perhaps it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.”  Last time I did NOT want to get to Santiago.  Didn’t want my walking to end.  But this time, I’m ready.  Ready to write and stay in my own little room at the Seminario Mayor, ready to find a laundromat to wash ALL of my clothes.  Ready to see Laurie D’Audney, my long-time friend from Fort Collins, who will arrive on the weekend from walking the Camino Frances.  Ready to meet up with Ria again, who has gone to Finisterre and will be back in two days. And I am still amazed that I made it, walking on the Norte.  But here I am.  Yay for me . . .

The monument at Monte de Gozo

Monday, October 5, 2015. 

Rain.  Rain.  Rain.  And more rain.  Lots of upright camels leaving Arzua after they collect in one of the only early-opening bars in town.  I get my usual croissant and cafe con leche before I put my own navy blue camel outfit on over the burgundy backpack.  Lines of colored camel-backs trudge out of town, gripping sticks so we won’t slip on the slick cobblestones.  We don’t realize we will soon need our sticks to pole-hop over puddles that get larger and more unpassable as the hours go by.

Multicolored upright camels begin to negotiate the “roads”, soon to be small rivers after all the rain the past few days

At the first bar, about 6 km down the road in A Calzada, about fifty of these camels crowd into the medium-sized room, desperate to get out of the rain and wind, often blowing sideways.  The wait-staff distributes cafe-con-leche and food at breakneck speed, trying to keep up with the orders from the wet masses.

I try to angle for a standing space, and I see the threesome, Karen, Francisco, and Loli.  So happy to see them, as this will most likely be the last time.  I know they will get to Santiago a day before I do, and I don’t think I will run into them again.  Francisco gives me his bar stool, Loli kisses my cheeks and squeezes me hard in a loving hug.  Francisco does the same, and Karen gives her slightly more proper Danish version of a goodbye.

They exit the bar into the gale, and I take Francisco’s seat.  No hurry . . . I’m going 17 km today to a private albergue in Santa Irene, where I have already reserved a single-non-bunk bed in the corner of the sleeping room, just like I did two years ago.

Returning to the trail, I find strong winds and sideways rain, and the roads are becoming very difficult.  Here is where the hiking poles take on a new job.  Getting me across these ankle deep rivers.

New rivers run through our Camino path

For some strange reason, the rain lessens abruptly, as I stop again at the next bar, less than 2 km away.  A darling puppy greets me, licks my fingers, jumps up on my legs, and runs around as though I’m her new owner.  I walk into the restaurant and she almost follows me, but as her paws touch the threshhold, she stops.  Already she knows her boundaries, so she begins to run around the patio area, where today there are only chairs and tables but no people.

The menu lists Caldo Gallego, a Galician “broth” made with kale, white beans, often potatoes, and sometimes cabbage (my favorite part when I can get it).  This is the regional dish I loved most on my first Camino, and but for the waterfront restaurant in Ribadeo, I haven’t had any yet.  I order a bowl, and the man goes out to another part of the building.

Soon an old woman comes out lugging a huge covered pot, and slowly goes into the kitchen behind the ordering desk.  Good.  Soup.  Now.  But not now.  15 minutes goes by, the old woman stirring her cauldron in the back, and I can only see part of her head and upper body, her arm moving a giant wooden spoon in circles.  I ask the man.  “Sopa?”  He makes a “wait” motion with his hand.  “Tranquillo,” he says.  Okay, I’ll relax.

Another 10 minutes, and I look up again.  He nods with the same hand motion.  Finally, he brings me a steaming hot and very large bowl of my Caldo, brimming with cabbage.  Oh, my god, the best I’ve ever tasted.  He looks at me, questioning.  I beam.  Worth the wait.  Wish I had taken a picture, but the rain made my brain soggy.

The sky opens again and another deluge begins,  I don’t see the puppy.  I ask the man, “Donde esta pequeña cane?”  He smiles and nods.  “No problemo.  Pequeña cane in la casa.”  Ah, the puppy is in the house.  Good.  I wondered where she could possibly have found shelter in that wind and sideways downpour.  Now the thunder begins.

A group of four peregrinos enter.  I tell them the soup is delicious.  They order and go through the same thing with the man about the long wait.  I tell them it will be worth it when the soup arrives.  One woman who speaks English begins to talk about a taxi.  Her English is excellent, so she might be German, Dutch, Belgian, Swiss, or perhaps actually English or American.  The bar owner says he’s the taxi and he will take her and her companion to Pedrouzo, about 10 km. away.  I am not going that far, not quite, but if the thunder and rain continue, I’d like to go with them,  just to my place in Santa Irene.

The wind nearly blew some people over as we walked earlier today, and I’m so sticky and wet, I’d like not to get myself soaked.  The ponchos are great, but when the rain is sideways and the wind is blowing, the ponche nearly comes up over your head, and everything is soaking wet.  I ask the woman if she would mind my splitting the cab fare three ways with her and her companion.  No problem.

In about 10 minutes, I show the man the private albergue to which I’m heading, and tell him he can drop me off nearby.  No need to turn around in the middle of the road and get me to the door.  The rain has let up again and I walk the short distance to the familiar building, step in and take my poncho out to a covered patio in the garden, put my boots in a little room with a stack of newspapers so I can stuff my shoes.  I just learned yesterday that newspapers stuffed into shoes sucks some of the water out of the inside of the shoes.  Interesting tidbit.  Almost too late now, since I only have a short ways to go to Santiago.  But still . . . maybe for my next Camino.  (WHAT?)

Same ritual . . . get settled in, connect to the wifi and begin to write.  People slowly gather throughout the rest of the afternoon, and I meet a couple from the States.  She from Minnesota, and he from Mexico, but married to her for 27 years.  Laurie and Salvadore. I hear some of their story, and they hear a bit of mine.  But they won’t be eating dinner here.  They are running out of Euro and this dinner (13 Euro) is too expensive for both of them.

A group of French people sit at one table playing some sort of card game.  For several hours.  At 8:00 we have our dinner and they stay together at their table.  “My” table has an Irish couple, Tracy and her husband, whose name I never got, an Englishman living in Dublin, an Austrian woman and a woman from Spain.  And me.

And set in front of each of us is a plate worth a photo:

Hake (a fish) garnished with red pepper, boiled potatoes (at least they’re not french fries), peas and a sauce. Delicious, but I leave the potatoes

Dessert . . . a peach half (canned, I’m sure) in sweet sauce. Looks like a freshly cracked egg, doesn’t it?

After dinner, same old same old.  A bit of conversation, some preparation for tomorrow’s walk, a bit more writing, and then bed.  I’ve signed on for a small breakfast.  Coffee and bread.  Didn’t want to have the bigger breakfast for twice as much money.  Coffee, juice and bread, cake, and  cookie or some other type of bread.  I’ll get something else along the way.  Maybe a salad again.  So I tiptoe into the sleeping room, where most everyone is already tucked in.  Step up to my platform single bed (like a princess alcove, says one of the women) and try to sleep.

Wednesday, September 30, 2015  Gontan to Vilalba (continued)

My right lower limb, with all its aching bones and joints, is doing much better, partly because I have devised a plan I think will work for me for next few days.  No more than 15 km of walking per day, and since these stages are very long, with only occasionally a place in the middle to stop, I will do what I need to do to keep within those parameters.  Today the walk was supposed to be more like 20+, so I catch a local bus and lop off about 6 km.  The driver drops me off in Martiñan, two short stops from Abadin, my breakfast place, and the arrow are waiting for me.

From Martiñan to Vilalba is just right, about 15 km. or a bit less. Perfect. I was going to the Albergue just before Vilalba, but there are posters for a new one in Vilalba itself, near the other side of the downtown, and I’m going to go there . . . just a few more km than I had planned.  And past the farm stand, I am now loaded down with about five lbs of food, including that bag of little peaches I bought.

As I walk into Vilalba, I see that I am walking with Ivan, the young man from Oregon, and we talk about body ailments on the Camino.  He is quite clear that he and many of the young men he has met with foot and leg problems have caused those problems with macho stubborn behavior (“It’s a dick thing sometimes”), and he has become conscious of paying more attention to how his body feels and not how far he can claim to have walked on any given day.  Quite a candid and newly self-aware young man.  I tell him he doesn’t need to stay at my slow pace as we find our new albergue, but he says there is no reason for him to hurry, and I see that he is practicing his new awareness of going more slowly.  Karen has loaded him up with creme for his injury, and she will be at this albergue as well as Sonja and her adoring crew.

When I am settled in the new albergue (quite nice, with a little dining room and a fairly well-equipped kitchen), I wander a few blocks to a bar and have a glass of wine.  Carrying my bag of corn nuts (I forgot how much I love these!) gives me a perfect snack with the wine.  I get out my MacAir, of course, and begin to write.

Showing Sonja the Dance Montage 2015 last night makes me want to see it again, so I load it up, and keep the volume fairly quiet, but a couple who has just seated themselves at the table next to me begins to bounce a bit in their seats.  The tune for this video is “Shut Up and Dance With Me”, and I love it.  I can’t sit still, and neither can this couple.  They come over to my table to watch part of the video, and we begin to talk. Here’s the video . . . how many film clips do you recognize?  The whole thing makes me incredibly happy, so I’ll watch it again when I’m finished with this write.

Andrus and Brigita from Sweden.  I tell them about my son Tanner’s partner, Hanna, also from Sweden, and of course don’t know her home town exactly, but hey, that’s what Facebook is for.  I’m friends with some of her immediate family, so I look up one of them and get the name of a town.  The couple recognizes its location, and we have a very nice conversation about travel, Sweden, and the United States.  I give Andrus my card, because he says he has friends in America.  I invite him to visit if he is in Colorado sometime.

As they leave (they have arrived for a week’s vacation and are staying at Vilalba’s Parador Hotel), he says, “Don’t be afraid if I come knocking on your door in Colorado one day!”  And I tell him I will welcome both of them.  Love these kind of surprise interactions . . .

Thursday, October 1, 2015. – Vilalba to Baamonde

There are strange names on this Norte.  Poo and Boo, and now there will be Saa . . . where the Ponte de Saa is located, a very medieval bridge, I think.

As I approach it, I renew my excitement for old bridges, especially ones I can walk across.

The Ponte de Saa from afar

And up close . . . mystical bridge carries its own mist

With my new plan of walking no more than 15 km a day for a few days, I cut off a bit less than 6 km by taking a local bus from Vilalba to San Xoan de Alba, and get off just where the shells direct me to the path from there. (I think I wrote something about this erroneously in the last post, but can’t seem to keep track of myself at this point!)

We are deep in Galicia now, and the mist, the green green green everywhere, the moss growing completely over the stone walls . . . all indicate exactly where we are.

A beautiful tree-lined view near Baamonde

Galician rock walls . . .

The walk today is really lovely, and as usual, I am alone, with only one or two or three pilgrims who pass me.  Ria is now headed to Miraz or towns beyond that, and still texts me when she gets to a place for the night.  But I see that I will collect another little family of friends for the next few days.  A spontaneous, perhaps synchronistic, gathering.

Am I Alice?  Or Dorothy?

Follow the yellow, no, white brick road . . .

I’m in a rhythm now, and happily walking, paying attention to twinges in my right side’s hinges, and finding that nothing is getting any worse than it was a week or two ago.  My plan is apparently soothing to my hip socket, though I’m still on my feet and they shout at me occasionally.  But their shouts have become those of children singing a song in which they are losing interest.  They know I won’t be carried to Santiago, so they have to just give it up and accept that they will hurt for at least another 100 km.  I promise myself to look for a foot massage place in Santiago.  I will be there for nearly a week.  Surely someone wants to soothe my toes, foot bones, ankles.

When I arrive at the little town of Baamonde, the albergue is dead center. A Spanish man who had kindly asked me very recently along the road how I am doing (“Que tal?”) was approaching the albergue from a different direction, as were two Australian women. They had all had reservations at the Hostal just past the town, but when they got there and looked at the rooms and the beds, they decided the albergue had to be better than the Hostal Esmerelda.

So back into town they walked, and settled in with the rest of us. This is the largest public Albergue on the Norte, about 100 beds, though I think there were probably no more than 30 people settled in by the time the doors locked at 10:00 p.m.

A couple from London, Marco (Italian) and Teresa (Poland) are also new to me.  For a brief moment I hear their conversation, but don’t really make a connection with them yet.

Everyone takes a turn with the washer and dryer, ecstatic because we will have really DRY clothing for awhile.  While I wait for my turn (Karen and Loli are ahead of me), I walk down to the bar and have a glass of wine  Loli, with the brightest smile I’ve seen in awhile, will wave to me when her washer load is finished and I can put mine in.  As Karen said, Loli speaks no English, and I don’t speak Spanish, but she is wonderfully perceptive and alive, despite her knee problem.  I will see that lit-up face for a few more days, and I will quickly learn to love it.  Wish I could have shot some video of her, but who knew?

I have run out of spaces for sellos, the stamps we get for our Camino credenciale, and I need a second one.  The Tabacos shop should have them.  It is an easy purchase, and on the counter of the shop I see something that smacks of home.  I buy it.  1 Euro.

A tiny bit of “home” right here in a village shop

In the albergue are Karen (Denmark), Loli (Spain), and a few I’ve not met before . . . Francisco, who rejected the Hostal Esmeralda, a wonderful man who has made a threesome of Karen and Loli, since Loli has the bad knee and both Karen and Francisco want to help take care of this amazingly lovely woman. Francisco is 56 and adorable.  You like him the moment you meet him, whether you are male or female, I suspect. Just a solid person, it appears to me.  Marco ( 71 – Italy)and Teresa (77 – Poland), both living in London for many years, and Barbara, the bicyclist.  Barbara was born in Scotland, but now is living in France, and announces it as though she has escaped some banal existence for one in a much more prominent or desirable country. No excitement, but rather a droll pronouncement.

She looks like my friend Beth, but is not at all like Beth in personality.  Barbara knows everything, has the latest and best version of everything, and does like to buy and share her wine. There are to be no variances from her experience, and I am surprised at her vehement insistence that she has the only answers.

Also Danielle, from Switzerland.  We connect quite quickly and automatically. She and I eat at the albergue, while all the others go up the hill (no more hills for me today) to an apparently very nice restaurant. I can wait for great food. Tomorrow is another day, and most of us are headed to Miraz. We have lost Sonja and her entourage, and I breathe a sigh of relief.  Who knows what other careers she might add to her story if she could talk to me for one more day.  I’m sure they are already far ahead of us.  But Miraz is my goal.

Friday, October 2, 2015.  Baamonde to Miraz

Miraz is just about 15 km, a perfect distance for my latest “saving the joints” plan, and I begin in the near dark, morning mist down to the street level. Walking on the street for 3 km is boring, but I know that part will be over soon and I’ll be back in the countryside.  I can barely see at first but when the mist lifts in Galicia, it’s like the magic curtain rises, bringing emerald green to everything below it.  Happened every day on my last Camino, though I was a bit farther south on the Galician mystical trail.  Here is not much different . . . every morning is lovely, as long as it isn’t pouring.  And it’s not, though the rains are supposed to come within a few days.And I can’t resent the rains too much because it is the wet that makes the emerald and lush thrive.

Spider architecture, kissed by Galician mist

Barbara the bicyclist is on her way, as is Danielle (Switzerland), and the new trio, Francisco, Karen and Loli.  I think the London/Italian/Polish couple, Marco and Teresa, are on their way as well.  So I will see all of them tonight. There’s nowhere else to go unless they want to walk 41 km instead of 15.

Barbara, Marco and Terésa arrive in Miraz first, and are sitting outside the only bar, with wine already. The albergue, this one run by the Confraternity of St. James in England, doesn’t open for another 30 minutes. Barbara asks which way I’ve come, and I point to my entrance road. She insists that I’ve come the wrong way and that there is a second set of waymarkers that bring one into this village from the opposite side. No arguing with her, even though Marco and Teresa also came from exactly the same direction as I did.   Barbara still insists that we couldn’t have come in the way we actually DID come. Sigh. I go into the bar, get myself a glass of wine and do not join the three across the street. I then make my way to the albergue to wait for it to open. Better than having an argument with someone who must argue about everything. Very weird on this Camino. I’ve never experienced anything like it in my Camino travels, though I know people like that at home (don’t we all?).

Marco and Teresa join me at the entrance to the albergue. Seems they’ve come to the same conclusion about Barbara, and we become fast friends.

Marco and Teresa

This albergue is definitely British . . . the three British hospitaleros take the pilgrims two at a time, and the man, Colin, carefully explains each point, the laundry, the kitchen, the open time and closing time, breakfast, etc. to each and every pair, some of us in English, others in Spanish. Precise language, modulated tone, slow and controlled. A perfect English albergue. Interesting and very different from the typical albergue, where people come in en masse and are registered in turn but without precision.

Once inside, I choose my lower bunk, of course, and dig out my groceries.  I want to lessen this extra weight, and there is a kitchen with several long tables here.  I spread out my food, trying to decide what to eat first.  I make a ham and cheese croissant sandwich, get out my corn nuts and pastry items.  Marco and Teresa are at the same table, with salami, cheese, and wonderful tomatoes. Marco longs for salt, and aha! I have a larger-than-I-need salt shaker to share with him.   He in turn offers me some of the delicious tomatoes. Well, if salt on good tomatoes is not a friendship anchor, nothing is.

Barbara sits with us for awhile, and as I talk about my still-aching hip socket, she points to a chair in the corner and says, “You should sit there, not here.  Go.  Sit there.”  I try to ignore her until I’ve finished eating, and as I rise from the table, she again points to the corner chair.  “Sit here now.”  I sit.  No use arguing, and sitting here or there is no big deal for awhile.

She soon sits next to me and says, “Suppose I go get you something to fix that hip.”  I say she has no idea what’s wrong with my hip, nor do I.  She says, “Well, wine can’t hurt anything, can it?”  So she goes to get a bottle of wine from the bar around the corner, and comes back with two.  I think the wine is her attempt to connect with people, and she doesn’t realize that her manner alienates more people than the friends she tries to make with the wine purchases.  Sad.  She does have a good heart, I think.

There is to be a short talk at the little church in the village, given by the precise and contained Colin.  After a glass of wine with Barbara, and my “chair therapy”, I take a stroll down the road to see what’s happening.  I enter the church late, just in time to get a beautiful sello for my credenciale, and then sneak out, wandering farther away from the albergue in search of the only real restaurant in Miraz.

On the road I meet Danielle, the Swiss woman from last night.  I saw her register at the albergue but haven’t seen her since.  She said she was “window shopping” though there are no real shops, hoping to run into me.  We continue to the restaurant for a glass of wine.  Then Marco and Terese join us and soon Francisco, Karen and Loli take the table next to us.  Ah, together again.  No Barbara.

Karen, Francisco, and Loli with her joyful countenance

The Menu del Dia is 9 Euro here.  I have soup, grilled chicken breast with salad, and tarta de Santiago.  The food is very good, which isn’t always the case with the Menu del Dia across this country.  During the meal, I hear some of the life stories of all three of my dinner companions, Marco, Teresa and Danielle.  Interesting, personal, some of it private and tragic.  So most of it stays inside me, and it helps build the friendships for the next few days.

I think this is usually how it is on the Camino . . . we know we will never see most of these people again.  Sometimes that isn’t the case, but typically it’s a surprise later if we do reconnect.  Ria and Larry are perfect examples of that surprise.  But for the most part, once we fly home we only carry the memory of these friends, not a hope to see them in a year or two.

So tomorrow, Miraz to Sobrado dos Monxes, where the albergue is in another very old monastery.  Teresa doesn’t want to walk the entire way, 26 km, and there are no buses through Miraz.  One of the hospitaleras offers to call a taxi for the morning, and Teresa and Marco say yes.  So does Danielle.  So I will share.  We will be dropped off 8 or 10 km down the road, picking up the arrows and shells again.  Another perfect plan for the parameters of my “good health” walking days.

Time for sleep after we walk from the restaurant back to the Albergue in the pitch blackness.  The cars scream around corners in this little burg, so small that the population isn’t listed on the internet sites I searched.  I’d guess perhaps 200-300 people MAX, and I wouldn’t be able to tell where they were hiding.  But what I know is that these cars don’t think about pilgrims walking through their town, though I’m not sure why not.  Miraz is on the pathway of the Norte.  We nearly get flattened, all four of us.  Francisco and his women are still eating.  Lucky for themat this point.  And lucky for us that one of us can scream to the others at the last moment . . . “GET OUT OF THE WAY!!”  The quietest of us, Danielle, then turns to the car and shouts (to no avail), “SLOW DOWN!!!”  Right.  We make it back to our albergue-home in four upright pieces.  We wouldn’t want the taxi driver to lump all our parts loosely in his trunk tomorrow.

NOTE:  First this wouldn’t post at all, and then posted without my having completed it . . . sigh.  So I think I’ve managed to finish it

Monday, September 28, 2015.  Lourenza to Mondoñedo

After yesterday’s climb etc., today will be fairly short, only 8.5 km, though by the time I am finished following the directions to the Cathedral (and the monastery where we are staying) from four or five local residents who mean well, I probably walk half again that much.  Seminario Santa Catalina.  Since there is no bar on the way, I hope there is a bench of some sort, and I come upon Ria eating her fruit at a nice little concrete U-shaped sitting place someone made for the pilgrims.

A picnic stop for pilgrims.  Note the fountain in the right foreground.

I reach the proper area of town after a man says in British English:  “Just go straight down there.  Do not turn.  Do not listen to anyone else.  You will find the Cathedral.”  And he’s correct.  The next challenge is to find the actual monasterio where we will sleep.  When I finally find the little door in the giant stone building behind the Cathedral, there is Ria, waiting for the man who is working the reception cubicle to finish whatever work he is doing so he can take her credentials. Priest in lay person’s clothing – moss green crew-neck sweater with white shirt underneath . . . he sits in his little booth at the entrance to the Seminario, waiting for people like Ria and me to come, giving out simple monastic rooms (with bath, thank you).  When I arrive, I guess he figures he can do it all in one fell swoop. He leads us up and up and up to the fourth floor (well, actually, he sends us on the elevator while he must have his angels lift him to the highest floor, because he is there just as we arrive in the ascensor).

The Cathedral is a National treasure . . . truly Gothic with a stunning rose window  . . . quite lovely inside and out. A 13th century cathedral declared a national monument in 1902.  It’s referred to as the “kneeling cathedral” because it is relatively short and has perfect proportions, with frescos among Galicia’s oldest.

The Mondoñedo Cathedral, from our bar patio

We do our usual unpacking, sorting, showering. The priest checked with one of his monastic spirit guides (probably a woman) to see if laundry can be done for us and yes, it can, so we sort and assemble a “small bag” of dirty clothes and Ria delivers it to the priest in his cubicle down on the ground floor.

A bar in the large and beautiful Praza de Cathedral gets our business all afternoon and evening, though it isn’t open early enough to get our breakfast money tomorrow. We have arranged for desayuno at the monastery, and that little meal didn’t need any wandering to find. Just downstairs from our room at the Comidor, the little man, again in his green crew-neck sweater and white collar and cuffs, was the only other person to have breakfast at 8:00. Does he live in that little booth? But for Mass and all the prayers all through the day and evening?

We visit the Cathedral at 4:00 when it opens again, and it is a simply beautiful Baroque church. Rose window, a gold but not too garish altar, and the simplicity I love in churches. Ria wants to go into the Museum, and the sign on the door says it is open at 4:00, but it is 4:20, and the door is locked, so we give up and wander around the streets instead.

There is a big deal about Il Rei de Mondoñedo, and some sort of tarta (not the Tarta de Santiago) famous in this place. After enough advertising about the tarta, we must of course go back to the bar, have a glass of wine and a slice of this famous treat. The waiter says it’s pumpkin tart, but the filling surely tastes like pecan pie, with that delicious syrupy middle. Criss-Cross pastry dough and one each, red and green, of the candied fruit we love to buy but hate to eat. Ria puts hers on her plate, as I do, but I eat the cherries. Not sure even what kind of fruit the green ones are.

Tarta il Rei de Mondoñedo

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Mondoñedo to Gontán (remember, not Gondán)

The walk out of Mondoñedo is uneventful, and though I know there is a bit of up and down, and do encounter one steep hill, nothing seems unmanageable after that long steep stretch between Ribadeo and VillaMartin Pequeño.  More road walking than I’d like, but then I’m back to the farm roads, the cows, and the peaceful walk I always love. Some interesting things along the route, however.

A unique way to stack firewood

I have no idea what this was used for, but I have not seen anything like it in Spain or anywhere else

About an hour from Gontán, where I am to meet Ria, she texts me and says she has gone on to Vilalba, because it’s still too early for her to stop walking.  This means she will be at least a day ahead of me for the rest of the Camino, but I know we will meet in Santiago on October 9, where she has reservations at the San Martin Pinario.  I made them for both of us at least a week or 10 days ago.

So I walk on . . . and meet John, from Ireland originally, but living in Oak Park, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago.  We talk briefly, I reach Gontán’s albergue, and he walks another half kilometer to Abadin, where he has a reservation at a pensione.  He paid a company called Camino Ways or something like that, to plan his trip, reserve his rooms all the way from wherever he started on the Norte to Santiago, and his biggest concern is getting to the designated town on the proper day for each stage.  I’m happy I don’t have that kind of schedule or pressure.

I settle into this albergue, fairly new, and there is a great deal of exuberant talking among several little groups.  An older woman is loudly giving injury advice (and creme) to a young American man.  I will discover later (because I will continue to meet some of these people again and again for a week or more) that the advice-giving woman is Karen (Danish) and the young man is Ivan from Oregon.  He’s done something to his ankle or foot and Karen has a whole bag of injury remedies, for herself, but she is willing to dispense to anyone who needs it.  A sort of domineering person with a great heart.  She has also been walking with a Spanish woman who speaks no English.  Karen speaks no Spanish, but she says they seem to understand one another  The Spanish woman has a bad knee, so Karen doesn’t want her to walk alone.

Well, I see there is another group gathering . . . as I said, the Danish woman with the commanding voice and her sweet Spanish friend Loli were in Gontán tonight, along with a darling little braggart named Sonja. All the men were around her. Kind of had that Amanda Rieux look to her, but younger . . . dark skin, dark curling hair, very exotic and beautiful looking.  She said she was from Colorado but not really. Said she lived in Telluride, Breckenridge, Aspen (oh, all over), and was a massage therapist. I began to ask whether she knows my friend Sharlie’s daughter, who is a massage therapist in Telluride, but Sonja said quickly, “Oh, I haven’t been there for a very long time.”

Then later she said she had to switch from being a hair dresser to being a massage therapist because she couldn’t stand her hair clients always talking about characters on TV when she didn’t watch TV. However, when we were in Vilalba the next night, she went on and on about how Modern Family is SUCH a good show, SUCH a good show. Another person who knows all the shows, but oh, no, doesn’t watch TV.  Amusing.  I’d guess her age to be something around mid to late 20’s, but I’m a terrible guesser these days.  I had Erika pegged at about Ashley’s age, 37, but she is 46!!  So who knows about Sonja.

I showed her the Dance Montage 2015, a favorite You-tube video and she said she was a professional dancer for 15 years. Let’s see . . .  hairdresser.  Massage therapist oh, so long ago in Telluride.  Professional dancer for 15 years.  Lived in all the very high end places in Colorado.  Now in Paris.  Boyfriend?  She talks about the “bourge(oise)” but is living and going to school in Paris at the moment, studying languages. Boyfriend is French. But she loves to flirt with all these men, and there is one who looks like the nerdy perfume counter guy on Love Actually. the one who played Mr. Bean, but this guy is mooning over her. She says she brought all the wrong clothes, didn’t even intend to walk this Camino, etc. in her fashion hipster clothing, black tights under tiny cut-off shorts like Hanna wears on the Gili islands. Hanna wouldn’t wear these things on the Camino.  Strange young woman, Ms. Sonja.

The American young guy named Ivan, from Portland, is very nice, and walks with me tomorrow as we enter Vilalba. Others I can’t sort out, but they will be sorted out tomorrow, I think, and the next day. The group is like a chem slide . . . some staying, some going, others joining, over the next few days.  As I went to sleep, I heard Sonja giggling loudly to the beaming psychic applause of all the men, who spanned two decades in age (at least!)

I must say that though initially I found Sonja really charming, the more I talked with her, the more I listened to her conversations with her groupie group, the more I realized that I was having the first uncharitable thoughts about a peregrino.  Ah, sigh. Wish I had a photo of her, but I don’t.  As she drops off the chem slide and others stick, I will show you some of the wonderful people in the  “Week Five-Six” group.

Wednesday, September 30, 2015.  Today the very next town is only half a kilometer from Gontán,  On the way to Vilalba . . . bus to Martiñan from Abadin, where I had breakfast, if you can call it that. Actually this WAS breakfast, because the nice woman behind the bar actually made me fried eggs.and I get a fried egg breakfast.  Great start for the day.  Weather is good, the walk looks very manageable, and I begin.

The walk is through countryside, with no hills.  How can that be?  No horrid climbs?  No ankle breaking downhills?  As I walk, I begin to notice posters on trees, announcing a new albergue just on the west side of Vilalba.  Looks great.  I WAS headed for an albergue before Vilalba, another one of those that had no food, no bar, no restaurant.  So I’m very happy I have another choice.

I arrive at a place where a farmer’s wife has put out a table for pilgrims.  Peaches, apples, fresh bread, cheese . . . for 1 Euro each.  I buy a bag of eight small peaches to carry with me (sigh, another bit of weight, but still . . . ), and Sonja and her crew gather around the table.  (again, my computer won’t load the photos, but they weren’t great anyway).  While we are all choosing our treats, a car stops and passes out very nice brochures for the new albergue, so I know I will see every one of these people in the town.

It’s as though we had all been airlifted from one sleeping place to the next.  And I sleep again to the tune of Sonja’s flirtatious giggles.

Thursday, October 8, 2015.  I am trying.  I am writing.  Neither Flickr nor WordPress wants to download any photos, and I’ve been trying for two days to finish the next post, from nearly 10 days ago.

I reached Santiago yesterday, and am settled at the Seminario Mayor, Hospitaje San Martin Pinario, where I sat after my last Camino, sat in comfort for five days and wrote and wrote.  That is the plan for this next week, but the internet or the websites or something just seems to be misbehaving.

Flickr, which my daughter uses with ease, just gives me this message:  “Bad Bad Panda . . . Come On!  We want to see photos!  (Don’t worry . . . we know there is a problem and we are working on it.)”    Who the hell is Panda?  Why are they still working on their problem after hours of giving me this message?  Why can’t I download more photos to either WordPress or Flickr?  No, I am not at my WordPress limit, and no, Flickr doesn’t even give me an option to download or delete or any such thing.

So know that I will finish, with or without photos, but the photos are so interesting, and I like peppering my words with images.

Just thought I’d give notice that I did NOT die on the Camino del Norte, that I DID finish, that I WILL update, and that I AM writing on my word doc site, which behaves itself nicely all the time.  Just can’t put more than words on the Woodswomanwalking site.

More later.  But all in all, I have had a “Buen Camino.”