Day 2 - April 29, 2017 - Vila de Conde to San Pedro de Rates

Stone aquaduct in Vila de Conde

We’d walked too far on the first day so we resolve to take it easy on the second. Our destination for tonight will be San Pedro de Rates, about 15 kilometres to the north and toward the interior of the country. We, or maybe just I, have grown tired of gale force winds howling off the ocean and the repetitive beauty of the rocks, sand dunes and newly blossomed flowers. Ironic, but true. Besides, the coastal route for the el Camino has only recently been completed while the traditional one was followed by Queen Isabella back in the 13th century was through the interior and has been used ever since.  

Not having seen the el Camino markers since leaving the coast, we decide to rely on Google Maps for direction. The fastest route follows a major highway so we use on of the alternative ones. 

As we leave Vila de Conde, we pass the usual businesses that take advantage of cheap real estate; big box stores like Staples and warehouses and car dealerships. However, unique to this city is a stone aqueduct that runs for miles. Unfortunately, road construction has usurped its importance as a structure of beauty and historical import and so parts had been destroyed to make way for the passage of traffic.

In amongst the industrial development is a field and in the field are ponies let loose to run around at their own leisure. We watch them graze and prance and chase one another as if they were showing off to us. Kind of cool.

The industrial area gives way to suburbs and single-dwelling houses. We pass a deserted carpet factory and in a farmer’s field and see the last remnants of the stone aqueduct. Flood lights hidden in the ground under plexiglass must provide a haunting memory of past civilizations to the wealthy occupants of the high-end houses across the street. 

A group of men congregate with their drinks outside a pub and to my surprise, they nod a friendly hello. We understood that the scarcity of el Camino direction signs is a consequence of the locals removing them or painting overtop the arrows so at least here, they don’t hate us.

The sweet aroma of shit

As houses give way to fields surrounded by stone walls, I observe a farmer weed-wacking a one-acre field of grass. This must be a very slow process indeed. In another field, I watch a farmer use his tractor to pull a tank that sprays what looks and smells like poop, the ultimate environmentally friendly fertilizer. Why don’t we do that? I wonder.

And then, we arrive at the forest. What are these trees? I ask Nicola. I didn’t recognized the drooping, coniferous branches attached to tall, barkless trunks. “Can’t you smell them?” she asks. “Not really,” I reply. “They’re eucalyptus,” she explains as if to a three-year-old. 

Then, we see smoke and realize they must be burning brush cleared from around the trees which

Walking through eucalyptus forest

reminds us of the FireSmart program recently initiated in Alberta.   Nicola wonders whether forest fires are a problem in Portugal. We’d seen what looked like a fire in the distance while walking along the beach the previous day. I assure her that it must happen. [In June, Portugal would hit headlines around the world when over 60 people died in wildfires.] 

At the start of a downhill stretch, we hit a t-intersection. The road we’d been following turns right. A dirt track that leads to the left is Google Maps tells us to follow and, to our amazement, so too does a pale-yellow el camino arrow we spot that's been sprayed onto a rotting wooden post. So, that’s what they look like, I explain. Nicola nods her head disdainfully because, of course, she’s read the guide book. She complains that I was supposed to plan this trip and all I did was book the flights. “I purchased the guidebook,” I retort. She doesn’t bite. My idea of planning a trip and hers are radically different. 

Nicola walking through field beside the muck

As we reach the bottom of the hill, Google Maps directs us across a farmer’s field on a barely recognizable dirt road filled with water and muck. We walk beside it across stiff stalks of freshly mown hay eventually arriving at a narrow gravel road. We follow that until it opens onto a plain and we see our destination, San Pedro, off in the distance. As we walk along the road, we are forced to make way for a handsome, young farmer driving a tractor pulling a shit-smelling metal tank. He smiles and waves and we wave back. 

We arrive in the almost deserted small town of San Pedro at a little after 12:00 noon. We admire the old church built in the 1200s, its altar covered with white roses. The arrangement and the narrow confines of the church, Igreja San Pedro de Rates, force the eye upwards to a statue of Jesus hanging from the cross. He's a bit hard to see in the photo because he's illuminated by the light from the window at the end of the sanctuary

Across the square from the old church is the tiny Chapel to Our Lady with room for only four or five chairs. It also has been festooned with white roses.

Altar with white roses

We decide to eat at the Pizzaria, which is very highly rated on Trip adviser, located on the main street not far from the sole gas station in town. As the only patrons, we have to rouse the young waiter, bar tender and for all I know cook, from behind the counter. We order their specialty pizza and two glasses of Super Boch beer. Fortunately, these mediocre lagers perfectly complement the mediocre pizza that we leave only half consumed.

Chapel to Our Lady in Rates

With half the day left to walk we seriously consider continuing onto. We only just pass the local alburgue on our way out of town when Nicola’s scarred and damaged ankle seized so that it wouldn’t bend. She could only walk by holding it to the side and rotating her hip. Fellow pilgrims wonder what the fuck she's trying to do walking the el Camino. 

We return to the hostel, a picturesque converted farm house. Our hosts stamp our passports and then assign us each a bunk bed in a room with three other bunk beds and a cot. Kitchen facilities are available down the hall. The lower floor has another room of bunks, common showers for men and women, and toilets. 

We enjoy dinner at a dining lounge just down the street from the pizzeria.  White table cloths cover the 20 or so tables that fill a large room with flat-screen televisions suspended on the wall on each end. The waiter turns on the lights and we find a table for two against the wall. About 15 minutes later, three burly guys arrive with a toddler in tow.

Chapel to our Lady

All sit on the same side of a table for six facing the television closest to us to watch soccer. They  the toddler is placed in a high chair at one end where the most burly of the characters googles at him all night. A little later, the mom shows up and sits across from the guy I assume to be his dad. Apparently, she wasn’t interested in soccer.

We return to the alburgue to share a small bottle of wine we’d purchased at the local grocery store earlier in the day. We’d been directed there by the alburgue hosts. It's a small, dimly lit place with shelves half empty of produce. That said, it did have a decent selection of wine. In the now-empty kitchen of the alburgue, we find two wine glasses and take them to the dining room next door. I survey the book shelves while Nicola pours the wine. I wonder if the mostly German books on the shelves reflected the relative number of German pilgrims on the el Camino.

We've just started enjoying our beverage when one of the hosts arrives to ask if we could keep completely quiet for a couple of minutes. A film crew wants to capture the sound of the ticking clock. I’d wondered about the woman with a large boom mike passing through the room a couple of minutes earlier. As a reward for our silence, the host offers us a glass of wine from the bottle from the back room. Much better than ours. 

Tower separate from church - Unusual we were told

You’d think that after consuming two large glasses of wine, we’d be ready to sleep. Impossible. We enter a completely dark bunk where I arrange my sleeping bag on the upper bunk. Thunderous snoring sounds blast from both sides of the room. I'll never sleep in here. Drugs, I think. Codeine. That’ll put me to sleep. That and some music. I’ll listen to music. Utterly exhausted, I can only toss and  turn in the cacophony. After a good half-hour, I vent on Facebook to my friends back home. The situation became so ridiculous, that I start laughing. My mirth must be contagious because a couple of other giggles emanate from the darkness. Apparently, not everyone is asleep. I get a comment on Facebook from my daughter, Earplugs, she writes. It’s the first rule of hostels. A little late now, I think. 

Nicola liked the hanging vines