Day 13, May 10, 2017, Picarana to Santiago de Compostela

Me in front of last of the wayside crosses

I’d told Nicola about the Pilgrim’s mass in Santiago de Compostela at noon every day and she really wants to see it. When the alarm rings at 6:00 the next morning, I ask Nicola to raise the blinds. She says, they're up. The reason for the darkness is two-fold, the sun hasn’t completely risen and the sky is overcast.

We walk along the highway until we reach the first café where we try the door and are pleasantly surprised to find it open. There are no other customers. A young woman with dark hair wearing tights and t-shirt, the uniform preferred by young women all over the globe, asks me to close the door. We order a coffee and croissant and sit at one of the tables.

Souvenirs of the el Camino fill the racks along the one wall of the shop. They include t-shirts with the trademark yellow scallop shell and of course, the patented yellow arrow. No one can take the el Camino without that shell being permanently imprinted in their mind. Plaques with trail logos are also on display and key chains and ball caps and bottle openers.

Path through park

It's still dark when we leave the café into the cold and drizzle. We make a short slog uphill to a really cool looking hostel/hotel with attached café. The front is all glass and looks out on the deep, dark-green forest w're walking through. We think about stopping but we've barely started and, of course, there's the Pilgrims Mass at noon.

We pass the last of the old wayside crosses, the Cruceiro do Francos and Nicola takes my picture in front of it. I take Nicola’s picture as she crosses the last of our many different medieval bridges. Forest and farmland give way to smaller plots of land. Our path joins a narrow road and we pass under a stone archway under the highway. We cross the Rio Ulla on a huge bridge and arrive at the crossroads where the Camino divides.

One follows the preferred route of the city officials. The other takes a path through a local park. We follow that. The forest is thick with trees, the path, wide and gravelled. We pass and are passed by locals on a morning run or a leisurely stroll. Then, we emerge in the city proper.

The buildings are all new, the road wide and paved with stores lining both sides of the street. I take a last picture of the trademark scallop shell direction sign and am surprised by my feelings. Instead of relief that our journey is finally over and I no longer have to endure the throbbing pain in my shoulder after a day of carrying my oversized pack. Or exhaustion after 24 kilometres of continual ups and downs because, although the Portuguese route is very beautiful, it's also very hilly. No, I was already nostalgic and sorry that our adventures were over.

It's 11:00 a.m. when we arrive in the centre of Santiago de Compostela so we decide to drop our

Street leading to the cathedral

bags off at the hostel. Google maps takes us to the location but we can't see a hostel. We search in both directions for a sign that would indicate its location. Nicola checks her reservation and discovers that it's actually on the fifth floor of the building we're standing right in front of. We both squeeze into a tiny elevator, close the cage door and make a slow ascent up five floors. We bang on a bright orange door beside the hostel's plaque but to no avail. With packs on our back, we make a circular descent down five flights of stairs.

The hotel is located close to the Santiago de Compostela cathedral and we know we are getting close when we pass crowds of tourists getting off buses on the edge of the older section of the city. Past this point, the streets are too narrow for vehicles and follow curvy medieval lanes to the cathedral at the centre. (Kind of like they were once contained within protective walls.) We pass a stream of souvenir shops and restaurants and then, there it is, the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, almost completely covered in scaffolding.

Nicola is pissed. I take her picture. She doen't take mine. I should have said something. I’d

Nicola in front of Santiago de Compostela

envisioned myself posing with raised arms in a silent cheer. I don't. Too many mixed feelings. I watched young people take group pictures. One young man punches his leg muscles as a demonstration to friends of their bulk. I’m sure we haven’t been in such good shape for years. 

The entrance to the cathedral is around back, so we circumnavigated the cathedral and are greeted by a sign indicating that backpacks aren't welcome in the church. Shit. What are we going to do? We decide to enter anyway, through one of two doors over which stand saints and monks in sculpted relief. We squeeze through crowds to the pews and find room on a bench at the very back. It doesn't take long for a security guard to tell us that we can't have our packs in the church. We’d seen a few left outside but we don’t want to take a chance of them being stolen. The guard tells us that we can leave them at the nearby post office.

Finding any location in these narrow, curving alleys is easier said than done. Thank goodness for Google maps. The post-office has a super-modern interior even though it's contained within a stone structure hundreds of years old. The drop-off for backpacks is right by the door and, without a lineup, the clerk quickly scans our bags, puts them against the wall and gave us tags for pick-up. We return to the church with about ten minutes to spare.

There are no empty places on the pews so we stand just outside a barrier beside the pews. A 

Altar with statue of St. James with crypt beneath

young nun is seated just in front of me which I find kind of interesting because I think they are a lost breed, young and a nun. Not unattractive either. So much for stereotypes. 

True to her age group though, she's busy on her phone which she keeps on her lap. In the row behind her, an elderly lady argues with a young man who’s taken a seat next to hers, I'm assuming she'd reserved for her husband. Even with the fuss, the man won't move. Nicola thinks she might suffer from Alzheimer’s. Eventually, the guard escorts her to the side.

The tomb for St. James lies beneath a large golden altar with a giant, golden statue of the apostle, quite the awesome sight. The service begins with a nun leading the congregation in a hymn. We can't even pretend to know the words all spoken in Spanish. Then, about 12 priests arrive to stand by the front of the altar in two straight lines. They take turns performing different parts of the service and a layman does the reading. One priest reads the gospel and another delivers the homily, all in Spanish.

When communion starts, I realize why there are so many priests. They all proceed to different locations in the church with their wafers. Parts of the congregation lines up in front of each. I'm 

Lighting the incense

hesitant to participate because I’m not Catholic but Nicola reminds me of Pastor Allan’s rule for communion. “If you would normally participate in your own religion. . .” Undecided, I let Nicola lines up . My feelings toward religion are mixed but, after a minute of contemplation, I line up too. I don't have to wait long before the priest place a wafer on my tongue and I return to my spot. No wine. Back beside, I discover my place has been taken by what appears to me as a someone by some guy who probably came on a bus which outrages Nicola. I remind her that they can still be pilgrims. I don't really care except that he's take the spot beside my favourite nun. 

We watch eight guys in red cloaks approach the front and the altar and Nicola whispers to me, “You’re going to get your wish.” We’d seen the ritual cleansing of the pilgrims in the movie, “The 

Swing and duck

Way” starring Martin Sheen. It involves the filling a giant thurible with charcoal and incense. It weights 53 kg and looks like a samovar. A hook from the ceiling holds a rope used to swing this giant thing over the crowd. When ready, the guys in red robes, or tiraboleiros, pull the thurible toward the ceiling and then let it drop causing a swinging motion. They repeat this motion until the thurible has reached a height and speed frightening to watch. As it swings, incense floats down over the crowd. 

Pilgrims hang out wondering what to do next. 

We were told not to take photographs during the mass but now, the cameras and phones all come out including the nun's. I spend only a minute trying to capture it on my camera because I want to experience the event. I'm extremely moved.  I can't begin to explain why. Perhaps it's the culmination of all the work required to get there. Maybe, it's because I'm witnessing a tradition that goes
back hundreds of years. Maybe it's part of my own DNA that empathizes with the feelings shared by a crowd and walking for 13 days surrounded by symbols of spirituality and people who get meaning from them. 

After the service, we search for the Tree of Jesse. At one time, pilgrims had placed their hands

Nicola waiting to get her certificate

 on it upon entering the cathedral. Over the decades, holes had worn into the central pillar and so, it's now barricaded. For whatever reason, probably having something to do with the crowds, we never find the tree.

According the guidebook, a series of rituals are followed upon our safe arrival at the cathedral. Besides touching the tree, we're supposed to touch our brow to the kneeling figure of Maestro Mateo, hug the apostle on the high altar and kneel before the casket containing St. James remains in the crypt. We don’t do any of these things. 

Nicola proudly displays her camino passport and certificate

When we started the pilgrimage, we wondered if we even wanted the certificate of completion. Now that we're done, we definitely do. We heard the line to get one can be very long but we're ok with that. We present our passport to one of about 12 clerks. He glances through mine, asks how long we've been travelling, takes money to inscribe my name and I'm done. Really done.

After a lunch of tapas and beer, we go out souvenir shopping and purchase a stylized sculpture of a pilgrim. Kind of cool.

The alleys all lead to the Cathedral however they do not follow any kind of grid so it’s easy to get lost. We we stop at a bar filled with knick knacks; dozens of miniature liquor bottles, multiple versions of Scotch, Rum, Tequilas and craft beers plus pins from a multitude of places. Very cluttered. The result of dozens of years of collection. I like it.  

We spend the better part of an hour searching for the tapas bar we’d spotted earlier in the day. I’m glad we did. Not only are the tapas fantastic but we meet the Dutch couple again. We share our feelings about having been moved by our experience in the church and they encourage us to try a different route for the el camino. We assure them we will. We felt so much in common with this older couple even though we never learned their names nor they, ours.   

Day 1 - April 28, 2017 - Matasinhos to Vila do Condo

As we began our el Camino, my wife, Nicola and I skip the nine kilometre walk through Porto to the coastal trail. Instead, we take the train to Matasinhos and from here, we need to walk a mere 25 kilometres to Vila do Condo to the hotel where Nicola has booked a room for us for the night. 

We get help from attendant to purchase tickets on the light rail transit that runs through the suburbs and stops every couple of blocks. This is nothing like the gorgeous downtown area with medieval stone buildings and fantastic blue tile mosaics. Instead, developers have decided to build nearly identical five and six story apartment buildings that provide the modern living space in which most people seem to live in this city. It would be Portugal's equivalent to the suburbs that surround our North American cities. 

Len  (me) heading across bridge at beginning of ourx el Camino

As we exit the station in Matasinhos, we see no sign of the ocean. We do spot a couple of girls sporting backpacks, one dressed all in camo wearing calf-height army boots. That's different, I say to Nicola, but I bet she's doing the El Camino. So, we follow her onto a bridge over an estuary that blocks the northern coastline from the city of Porto. Once over, we turn left and spot an El Camino station. It's the office of tourist information, a modern building with large glass windows overlooking the beach 

We pull out our pilgrim passports that Nicola ordered in Canada. They're necessary for those wanting to stay in hostels called albergues available to perigrinos (pilgrims) as they make their way to the destination of their pilgrimage, Santiago de Compostela. The el Camino is Called The Way of St. James, in English because the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, contains the remains of the apostle. Pilgrims have been making the journey through the Pyrenees since the 11th Century. Queen Isabel made the pilgrimage from Lisbon during her reign between 1271 and 1336. The coastal route that we're following is more recent joining the original trail as it approaches its destination. 

Passports provide proof that a pilgrim has completed the el Camino or a portion thereof  and is thereby eligible for a certificate. Eligibility for a certificate depends on walking at least 100 kilometres of the camino to reach Santiago de Compostela. 

                                                   

Nicola along the boardwalk

Finding the coastal board walk is not difficult because it's right across the street from the tourist information office. Now, all we have to is walk the 24 kilometres to Vila do Condo. 

We're in high spirits as we begin our trek.  Waves crash on the beach of fine, beige sand that extends as far as the eye can see broken only occasionally by rocky outcrops. Nicola comments that the swimming and surfing will be great later in the season as the air and water get warmer. Being April, the flowers are blooming and amazing. Nicola particularly likes the bright red and yellow rubbery flowers of the Cape Fig.  These plants hug the sand as protection from the wind that blasted off the water. It spreads vine-like along the surface feeling its way for possible sources of nutrients.

A huge oil refinery looms across the road  It's dirty and ugly with pipes leading everywhere emitting exhaust into the crystal blue sky and so big it takes us about hour to walk pass. I remind myself that it would also be a prime source of employment in the area. 

An older guy flashes by at a sprightly pace and wishes us our first “bon Camino." Not long after, as we pass the Obelisk de Memorial, we make way for a young couple who give us the same “bon Camino” greeting. I respond with a shy version of my own. Nicola says nothing. We have yet to feel the communal spirit of those who share the trail.

I wonder why they're walking to fast. Shouldn’t they be enjoying the experience, stopping to enjoy the flowers, view and take pictures of the obelisk commemorating the landing of 7500 men sent by Pedro IV’s men from Brazil on July 8, 1832. They were there to aid the liberation of Portugal from French occupation under Napoleon’s armies. 

Refinery

We stop for lunch at the nearby café built right on the beach and I experience the lightness of foot that comes with relieving oneself of a heavy backpack. We find a table with a great view of the ocean and I notice the other patrons, all Portuguese, who pay us no attention whatsoever despite our bedraggled appearance and the large packs we've dump in the corner. The waiter speaks no English but we're able to communicate our desire for a cokes and sandwiches. We sit in silence as we're already tired even though we're not half way there and it's already 1:30.

Memorial Obelisk

Three kilometres up the trail from where we'd enjoyed lunch, we pass the Lavra Angeiras which are replicas of Roman salt tanks that were used to collect and salt fish. The rock tanks are of trapezoid shape embedded in the sand and look functional. I don't bother taking a picture. On a sign, I read that villagers also harvested seaweed in the area to use as fertilizer for the sandy soil. It's a this point that we notice lots of condominiums or time shares built along the coastline. Unlike in North America, these are built well back from the waterline making the entire beach open to the public.

We pass a couple of old fishing villages that are located right along the coast. Fisherman have pulled their brightly painted heavy boats high up on the beach. Most have one or two large outboard motors and are equipped the latest navigational electronics. Brightly painted houses contrast sharply with the beige coloured sand. Lobster pots are piled alongside nets coiled high in the sand with the requisite buoys attached. One fisherman untangles his fishing net while an interested couple from a parked tour bus look on. 

In the second village, we pass an alburgue where we would have stayed had we not made a reservation at a hotel in Vila do Condo. We haven’t rested since eating our short lunch and we're exhausted. Twenty-four kilometres might have been a bit ambitious for the first day. With Vila do Condo well within our sights, we collapse onto chairs at a beachside café and order ice-cream bars, the first I’ve had in years. Absolutely delicious.

Fishing village

With the addition of a coke, we feel energized enough to walk the five kilometres to our hotel. Instead of following the trail, I use Google Maps to direct us on the fastest course. Maybe a mistake. Hard cement and tarmac combined with boring cityscape frustrates us. It seems stupid to be walking where bike or motorcycle transportation makes a whole lot more sense.

We pass few single home dwellings as most people seem to live in condos or apartments with a shared lawn and gardens. I observe one old guy mowing his lawn in bare feet.  It reminds me of my aunt who cut her toes doing the same thing.

After criss-crossing major thoroughfares, we enter a residential area that's not the ordinary location for a hotel. Our facial expressions must have reflected our confusion about the location and weird house numbering because an older woman approaches us wondering if we need help. We tell her and she repeats something back to us. And we see what. And she repeats what she said and I say what and Nicola says yes. She points to a building with an awning covering a walkway from the street to the front door. We nod our okays but she's not convinced of we're looking at the same building so she motions us to follow. At the door, she yells into an empty entranceway with an walnut reception desk at one end.

Waterfront - Villa Conde

An affable, middle-aged gentleman greets us as he enters from a passageway behind the reception desk. After registering, he insists on taking the backpack from Nicola who has been limping badly. He escorts us to a room on the second floor with two twin beds, a single florescent light in the ceiling and a small bathroom with tub, toilet and bidet. We collapse on our respective beds and discuss our prospects for dinner.

We decide on one of Trip Advisor’s highest rated restaurants for the area even though it requires we walk 600 metres, which doesn't sound like much but double it, you get a kilometre more of walking we'd rather do without. Once out, we're immediately energized  by the beautiful surroundings of beautifully restored ancient structures that line the narrow alleys close to the harbour. 

Our destination has a beautiful view of the harbour. Upon entering the restaurant, we feel Nicola's reservation may have been unnecessary until the waitress seats us at one of the few tables with a view. Outside, sailboats are illuminated by the rose-coloured glow of the sunset. Even though we didn't arrive until 7:30, the majority of the restaurant's patrons don't arrive until after 8:00. Perhaps that's the reason we need a good half-hour to attract the attention of the waitress to pay our bill. Despite the pretensions provided by the appearance of an upscale restaurant, the meal was actually very mediocre. Nevertheless, we feel reinvigorated after our first gruelling day of walking.

View from restaurant

After 25 km., time for dinner

Lobster pots, colourful houses