Day 7 - May 4, 2017, Rubiaes to Tui

Breakfast just outside of Rubiaes

The albergue from we're about to disembark is 1.3 kilometres from the small town of Rubiaes. After we finally pack our stuff and close the door to our room, we discover the place to be completely deserted.  We'd assumed breakfast would be on offer. Instead, we're going to have to find a café for breakfast along the trail. We continue down the road outside our albergue until arrows indicate for us to follow a trail to the right and up the hill. I figure the town must be down the hill to our left. Without a population of any significance in sight, I wonder where we can find nourishment for the road 

The trail leads to a narrow country road and there, on our left, overlooking the valley is a café with floor to ceiling windows allowing a gorgeous view of the valley. The only other patrons are a familiar German couple finishing their coffees. We nod our recognition.

We order two cafés (espressos), croissants and yoghurt and find a table next to the window. I buy an El Camino ball cap emblazoned with the pilgrim's oyster shell that indicates direction all along the trail. It'll go with all the other ball caps I don't wear. A 40-something Irish guy arrives a few minutes later. He sits at the next table and complains that he’d had to walk 35 kilometres the previous day and this was as far as he was going to walk today. About a half hour down the trail from the cafe, he passes us never to be seen again. So much for resolutions. 

About 11:00 a.m., we reach the peak point of our journey this day where the cities of Valenca and Tui are visible in the distance. We've noticed that many of the nicer houses in Portugal are located on these higher elevations. Old farm houses and manors mix with architecturally-built, ultra-modern houses with flat roofs, floor-to-ceiling windows and immaculately sculpted shrubs and bushes. In one of the driveways, chest-deep in a hole, a young man scoops sewage out of a chest-deep ditch. He stops to wishes us “Bon Camino” as we pass.

Cork Tree with much of its bark removed

With lunchtime approaching, the search for a café begins. Food becomes a bit of an obsession on the trail so when we discover the only cafe in the town of Fortoura to be closed, we are deeply disappointed. Then, we notice a sign for another café that requires a 200-metre uphill detour. Now, in a car, 200-metres in nothing. On foot, it’s a little more consideration especially if we walk the 400-metres without the reward of a meal. Fortunately, that is not the case. We sit on the deck that overlooks the valley and order 2 Mini Super Bochs of just 200 ml. of beer each, the perfect amount for a break while walking on a hot day.

As we march ever closer to Valencia, we spot our first cork trees . Portugal is famous for them. Lower portions of the bark are removed and yet, the tree still lives. As we approach the city, vineyards and vegetable fields give way to tarmac. Fields left fallow have been taken over by ugly thorn bushes that grow so thick, nothing else can survive. Factory buildings are so deserted that we wonder the reason for the occasional passing car ‘cause nothing seems to be happening here.

Me in front of the tiny altar

After a kilometre or two, the tarmac gives way to cobblestone and we pass a combination of residential and retail area. About this time, Nicola wonders if the citizens of some countries take more pride in their property than others. I suggested it may have to do more with socio-economic background than nationality. Then, we pass an old guy trimming his immaculate rose hedge lining the road outside his very modest bungalow in this semi-industrial area. I think she might have a point. 

Further down the same road, the sudden sound of church music startles us both. The tinny sound originates from a small altar dedicated to the Virgin Mary. We spend a moment celebrating the distraction from this hot, boring and arduous plod.

Bus depot with yellow arrow.

Yellow arrows directing though a bus station surprise us but we follow it anyway. We're relieved that a street on the other side  leads us straight uphill to the castle and the ancient section of the city. Of course, our journey includes four or five hundred metres of misdirection uphill. 

Protective walls of the fort in Valenca

The fort at Valenca overlooks the Minho River, a perfect high point to defend against attackers both from land or river. We cross a moat and through a tunnel into the fort. In the central square, we spot a couple of cafés with tourists seated outside at tables protected from the sun by large umbrellas. We pass these in hopes of finding a less touristy location. A short distance to the far side of the fort, finds us atop a wall that overlooks a series of protective walls. One restaurant featuring a deck that overlooks the river would be perfect without the ever-present gale force winds.  

We return to the square where the waitress, obviously accustomed to pilgrims, doesn’t bat an eye as we lean our packs against the outside of her restaurant. We collapse in chairs and order tapas and beers. At the table next to us, a group of older ladies excitedly discuss their upcoming trek. Nicola pities the young good-looking guide they all faun over. Valencia and Tui are just far enough for someone to walk 100 kilometres, the distance required to receive receive a certificate of pilgrimage upon arrival at the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. Nicola doesn't believe some of them will make it. They’re not only elderly but large. That said, I've discovered that age and size don't always determine the resolve of a pilgrim.

We follow the yellow arrows along a narrow street to the gate closest to the river. A little girl rides a tiny tricycle amusing her dad and other clerks standing outside their empty shops. The tourist busses from Porto have left for the day leaving all to appreciate the joy experienced by four-year-old. Nicola admires the embroidered quilts on display in the shop windows. She'd like to purchase one but can't envision carrying it on her back for 100 kilometres.

We exit the fort through a tunnel that's deeper and longer than the one we'd entered.  We follow a bridge across the river with barely space for passing cars and a pedestrian walkway. Nicola and I walk single-file and express outrage (to one another) as we witness a backpacker passing on the other side of the barrier in the car lane causing vehicles to pile up behind him. Weird.

Bridge with very narrow walkway

The last trek of the day requires an uphill walk to the Tui Cathedral strategically perched atop. Unfortunately, I insert the address of our hotel into Google Maps instead of the name of the hotel. Nicola says that it's supposed to be close to the cathedral but my map says no. We veer left away from the landmark and arrive at a house instead of a hotel. Nicola maintains her composure and I don't become the object of frustration and anger after already having walked 22 kilometres. When I enter the hotel’s name into Google Maps, it shows it to be exactly where Nicola said it should be and not far.

Tui Cathedral

The walls of the fort have been torn down however many of the medieval streets and buildings are still intact. Our hotel has been gutted and replace with modern interior. We climb steep three flights of stairs to the reception where a pleasant, middle-aged, well-groomed lady, stylishly dressed greets us cheerfully. We register and follow her down the narrow staircase to our room on the first floor. We drop our bags, collapse on the bed and take turns washing beneath a state-of-the-art marble and glass shower stall.  

The thirty-something guy dressed in black behind the Tui Cathedral ticket counter informs us that the entrance fee is  4€ and the cathedral closes in 20 minutes. He also asks if we would like our El Camino passports stamped. We nod and Nicola brings them out of her purse. 

Inside Tui Cathedral

A giant pipe organ with a cloister attached to the side dominates the centre of the huge, dimly lit cathedral space . We take the requisite photographs,  we leave. Despite the size and the awesomeness of its many altars, we feel that 20 minutes was enough. We've been awed and amazed and without a guide, or at least a guidebook, churches and cathedrals invoke more feelings than knowledge.

Where the medieval city ends, streets widen and the modernity begins. We find a bar to rest our weary bones and enjoy craft beers. I’d noticed a La Chouffe on tap so when the waitress doesn't include it among the selection of beers on offer, I make a request. She smiles and brings me a glass.

We face a wide avenue where the children of patrons are playing soccer on a very wide sidewalk. They belong to a group of four women seated at another table gabbing while one of their husbands plays with the youngsters. Not a scene we’re likely to see in Slave Lake or anywhere in Canada considering our prehistoric liquor laws. Although, I hear they're changing.

After a disappointing dinner of mediocre tapas, we returned to our hotel to sleep like we’d spent an entire day walking.

Potatoes with cheese and tomato drizzle

Day 6 - May 3 2017, Ponte Lima to Rubiaes

We have been hesitant about the walk on which we are about to embark. The distance is a modest 16 kilometres however the climb is a brutal 410 metres. And, today will be the hottest on our walk. Good timing. 

On the way out of town

We rise early to take advantage of the cooler temperatures. Very little movement on the street concerns me about finding a place for breakfast. Fortunately, a coffee and pastry shop just opened up across the street. A very elderly man serves us our pastry while his daughter, about our age, makes our espressos. I'm retired and this guy who looks older than my father if he was still alive, is still working.

The trail begins around the corner from the albergue on the other side of the river. We follow a rock wall that we're forced to walk atop as water has pooled on the trail. A German girl who seems to be walking at our speed and who we'dalready seen a couple of times the previous day attempts to help Nicola onto the ledge. At first, Nicola rejects the help and then accepts it. Apparently, Nicola had been the topic of conversation at the albergue in Rates. Nobody thinks she's going to make. Fortunately, we only have to tightrope the rock wall about a hundred metres.

Fox glove

We pass fields of purple flowers Nicola identifies as fox glove which glow like they're reflecting a purple light from the 70s. Where the trail meets a road and we begin the long climb into hills beyond. Our slow, steady progress begins to plod at 10:30, we begin looking for a café to purchase a drink and sit down to rest. A vineyard enclosed within a gate advertises a café that will open in September. We decide not to wait.

Another hour's slog finds us in front of pilgrims lounging on chairs outside a lone café perched on the side of a hill at the entrance to a small village. The outside chairs benefit from the cool breeze. Of course, these are all occupied so we go inside to enjoy the stagnant air and sweltering heat. I order two ham and cheese sandwiches from a squat, grey-haired old lady who makes them in the darkened recesses of the café. They're good as are the sugared watery sustenance of our Cokes.

Village we passed on our climb

Paying a restaurant bill in Portugal and now, Spain can be an onerous task at the best of times. My sense was the clerk understood some English however, when I tell the old lady that I want to pay for our sandwiches, she proceeds to make two more. I don't realize the misunderstanding until she's almost finished one of the two and I'm able to stop her from the second. I’m not sure whether I paid for one or two sandwiches.

As we pass through the tiny village, we begin our long ascent to the pass. The paved road gives way to a dirt one through the forest and we're grateful for the shade on this, our hottest day so far. Yellow arrows that point up a narrow, rock strewn path straight up the hill. I figured the path must turn into a stream during periods of rain and remind me of the short-cuts between switch-backs in the National Parks that the rangers block off with pieces of wood.

Part path, mostly creek bottom

The forest turns from deciduous to pine and has been cleared of underbrush like that done for the Fire Smart program back at home.  After an hour's climb, we take a welcome, cool-down break. The backpack strap on the my right shoulder causes a sharp, nagging pain. The culprit is my camera bag but I don't put it away for fear of missing a shot.

Taps had been placed in pine trees where we sit.  Clear plastic bags collect the sap, so I stick my fingers in the hanging bag for a taste. Stupid. It doesn't taste sweet or tasty and, being sap, is extremely sticky. In the middle of this forest, there's no running water for rinsing or wetones for wiping. What to do, what to do. Much to my relief, I discover the stickiness wears off within a half hour. 

Nicola’s ankle is holding surprisingly well. That said, a very heavy woman and her middle-aged husband catches up to us and passes during our break. I didn’t think she could climb that incline with a pack and in that heat let alone pass us. Hmm. 

Nicola at top of pass

Shortly after we resume our climb, the image of sky through the lower branches of uphill trees brings an expectation of an imminent end to our climb. I'm surprised to be right. A cleared patch of ground around a crude forestry building allows for a nice view a pot for lunch. The heavy lady and her husband share a bench with another couple with whom they share lunch. I guess their country of origin to be Slavic. Nicola and I drink our ration of our water and search for a reliable source of drinking water to replenish our stock. No such luck. Instead, I photograph Nicola with Lima valley in the background.

Path down from the "peak"

Our guidebook warned us about precarious footing on the way down. This proves less a problem than I guessed. We make good time downhill eventually connecting to a narrow road and leaving the rocky path forever. We trek through dense, cool forest, a pleasant relief from our hot climb. I pass by an ancient stone structure opening over a stream. Nicola stops me and points to an ancient water mill that has long since stopped functioning yet evokes images of a life centuries past. 

The forest gives way to recently tilled farmers’ fields with adjoining vineyards. Scarecrows stand in a number fields looking nothing like humans but, evidently, guarding a mystery crop from an apparent bird problem. 

A waterfall we passed on the way

Just before arriving at our hotel, we stop where practically every pilgrim we've seen on trail has stopped for a drink. Nicola finds a seat in the shade and I line up at the open-air bar attached to the side of a house. Nicola figures it would be a pretty easy way to make money with very little investment. 

As I stand in line, I savour the idea of a nice, cold beer until I noticed the fellow in front of me has ordered a Super Bock lemonade beer. I decide that we would try the same. It proves delicious and, with low alcohol per volume, very thirst quenching. The Slavic couple sits at the bar's best table in the shade next to the bar and we find a nice spot of our own at a table under a tree. Then, a group of six Italian trekkers decide to join us where there really isn’t room for them all but they squeeze in anyway. We drink up and leave.

Nicola poses next broom on trail

Our hotel is actually a hostel. Between the stairwell and the common room, a young girl with long black hair sits behind the reception desk busy looking at her phone. She greets us and then continues with her phone until Nicola explains that we have reservations. She proceed with the formalities while I explore the common area. An ancient couch provides seating in front of an equally ancient television. Movies can be played on the VHS machine beneath. The road can be seen through a large window in front. On a bookshelf off to the side, a couple of English novels catch my attention however I immediatlely dismiss the idea of carrying another ounce of weight unless absolutely necessary.

Nicola calls and the girl escorts us to a second-floor room with two double beds and a large blank white wall that we can use as a screen for watching a movie that night. We shower in a tiny stall contained within a large, black, ceramic tiled bathroom. True to form, I spill water on the floor through an inadequately closed shower curtain. (Hopefully, it doesn't drip through the ceiling below.) We wash all our dirty laundry and hang our clothes on the narrow balcony to dry in warm breeze. At 7:00 p.m., a car and driver take us to an affiliated restaurant for dinner. It's the first time we've been in a motorized vehicle in six days. 

Like many of the restaurants we’ve visited on our journey, this is large with lots of tables and very few customers. Tonight, there is only us and the two Slavic couples with the large, surprisingly fit middle-aged fat lady. I make innocuous comments about the trail and they return with ones of their own and then return their attention to those at their table. On a flat-screen television above my head, a jolly, fat man picks random people from an audience to complete silly tasks for a prize. Then, our waiter switches channels to a soccer game. The television must have been the brunt of someone’s anger because a long horizontal crack runs the length of it.

We are given a choice of meats with the pilgrim’s menu, pan fried trout or chicken. The trout is fantastic and reminds me of the fresh trout meals I’d enjoyed in Peru. We're also served a big pile of fries and rice. They always serve rice in Portugal. I probably don't finish half my carbohydrates. 

Back at the hotel, I set-up my teeny projector to watch the movie, “The Way.” It’s about a father whose son died in a freak storm on his first day of the French el Camino. The grieving father, played by Martin Sheen, decides to complete the pilgrimage in his son’s place. We feel a camaraderie with these actors playing pilgrims on a similar grueling journey.  Watching the movie projected on the wall, is like being at the movies. Really fun.

Day 5 - May 2, 2017 - Balugaes to Ponte Lima

Eucalyptus trees & calla lilies

From the farmland around Balugaes, we walk through beautiful forested areas with huge eucalyptus trees that provide shade for the heart-shaped white calla lilies.

From the hilly terrain forest, the road opens up as it passes by small farms bordered by old stone walls. As we march along a narrow stone road empty of traffic, a Canadian with a British accent catches us from behind. Short and lean and 30 something, he tells us he's from Nelson, B.C. so I comment on the beauty of the area. He responds by complaining about the lack of employment. He tells me he works in software development plus landscape gardening and something else. 

He goes on to say this is his second el Camino. On the French el Camino, he walked an average of 40 kilometres per day. Now, the Portuguese side, he's down to just over 30. He complains that his feet every day just like they did on the French el Camino. I don't understand.

Do you need new shoes? I ask.
No, the shoes are fine, he replies.
Maybe you need a rest, I say.

Calla Lilly

He doesn't respond.

I don't understand why he just didn’t slow down. I understand the el Camino to be a challenge and a spiritual journey for some. Certainly not a race or an instrument of torture. His interest in me is minimal and so our conversation ends. 

At the same time, I'm talking to the Canadian, Nicola's conversing with his British buddy from university, a friendship that goes back 20 years. Nicola tells the British dude about our kids, their education and jobs. He tells her about his previous el Camino, Donald Trump, Brexit and the German attitude toward rules. (They should be obeyed.) I don’t know how the conversation came up but he describes a conversation he'd had while travelling in Germany for work. One of his co-workers had wondered aloud why anyone bothered to pay for transit in Germany as there were no entry gates that required a ticket. The response from his German friends had been outrage. “Why wouldn’t you pay for it? It’s only one Euro. Besides, it’s the rule.” A rule that, in Canada, would be largely ignored. 

It doesn't take long for the Brit and Canadian to tire of our slow pace and leave us in their dust.

Scarecrow in field we passed

Along the same stretch, flat with farm fields bordered by stone walls, we catch up to an Irish dude we’d previously seen at a café on the outskirts of Barcela. He's tall and skinny, with glasses and a wide brimmed hat. Like other very fit people on the el Camino, I have difficulty determining his age. Usually they're older than they look. So, when he starts talking about a son, I'm guessing an adult. Who knows? Our conversation takes on the easy cadence of old friends however when he doesn't mention a wife, I don't ask.

Hay swathed by scythe

We do mention that our daughter’s fiancé has family in Dublin to which he replies, “North or south?” We don't know. Apparently, it matters. He says he hasn’t been on any walks in Ireland however he says there are some nice ones in the U.K. As we walk at the about same pace, I expect to see more of him on the camino.

As we approach Ponte de Lima, we are greeted by a fish run of all things. At least that’s what the Irish dude says it is. This is a series of steps over which the water flows. The fish must consider them rapids and so swim up them to spawn. Just past the fish run, we spot the beautiful medieval bridge of Ponte Lima from which the town gets its name. As we approach the city centre, the path turns to cobblestone road lines on both with large trees that create a tunnel of shade.  

Fish run Porto Lima

From a distance, the town could be a Lemax village like the ones people set up on a table or mantle at Christmas. Incredibly picturesque. From the downtown area, we walk across the old bridge to the albergue on the other side. It look nice but we have booked a hotel room and I'm looking forward to another good sleep. Beside the albergue is a pottery shop that sells merchandise made locally. It's pottery so we don't even consider a purchase. In the courtyard out front Nicola identifies a rosemary bush she says is “huge.” I can't even pretend astonishment so embellishes. They don’t grow anywhere near this size at home, she say. Oh yah, I reply. 

Tree lined path to Porto Lima

Nicola also comments on the plants growing on the side of the bridge. Tiny flowers sprout plants clinging to a life dependent on nutrients and moisture acquired from tiny cracks in the stone structure. Again, I try to be excited. Over the edge of the bridge, I watch teams of rowers practice their strokes, starts and stops on the slow-moving river. Most of them are school age, in K1 and K2 kayaks and C1 and C2 boats as well. 

We find a table at a café in the downtown square overlooking the river for drinks next to a group of young people finishing the last of many beers at the next table. We order sangrias from a surly, middle-aged, her large size hardly concealed under a red apron and floofy white blouse. Nicola takes one sip and remarks, “Best I’ve ever had.” They are very good. Always calculating her next cocktail, Nicola figures the reason for it's tastiness has to do with a good quality of wine.  

The sun is slipping over the horizon as we finish our drinks so Nicola checks the infamous Trip Advisor on my phone to determine the best rated restaurants in the area. She discovers one just up the street off the square where we're sitting. Despite the growing chill, we find a table outside where we enjoy a somewhat obstructed view of the river and I watch a local merchant throw bread for the pigeons and, I wonder why. 

We order a white vino verde Nicola says is supposed to be good however I'm not crazy about it. I admit I'm having a hard time developing a palate for these young wines. The tapas are excellent. By the time we're finished, the air is getting quite cold so we retreat inside for coffee. Besides a lone female at the table next to us, the tables outside were empty. Inside, we can only find seats at the bar where we're entertained watching the bartender mix a variety of cocktails. We admire photos of historical figures that hang on the wall beside us. 

Nicola with her Sangria

The restaurant combines ancient architecture with state of the art technology. Very modern light fixtures hang from the ceiling and ultra-cool appliances match the walls covered in deep red wallpaper and matching upholstery on the chairs. When the bartender delivers a wonderfully strong and tasty expresso, he includes a small glass of coffee liqueur. Nice touch.

After dinner, we wander the area with its 16^th century architecture all lit by indirect, subdued yellow lighting that accentuates the fantastic texture of the stone of the walls and sculptures hidden in niches. Nicola fell in love with the cut-out life size soldiers standing at attention in two ordered columns on the bank of the river. So, down we go to have a look. The two soldiers at the front and back of the columns  are actual manikins each holding a plastic spear. The soldiers are 2-D wooden cut-outs. Weird. I’m sure the kids like them along with the appreciators of the silly and nonsensical like Nicola.