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| Broom on door |
After a terrible night of sleep, I awake at 5:00 a.m. and wait 'til 7:00 for
Nicola to get up. She complains that the guy beside her bed had garlic breath. Besides the discomforting odour, she says she was creeped out by the close proximity of a male stranger.
As we leave the alburgue, we find streets that are empty of pedestrians and
vehicles. Even Macdonald’s is closed. Attached to the doorways of the businesses and apartments we pass are branches of broom arranged in wreaths. Nicola tells me that they're meant to ward off the evil eye and, obviously, no one wants to be a target for the evil eye.
Broom, the plant, looks much like the household tool with the requisite straw-like strands that end
in bristles perfectly designed for collecting dirt. In the spring, small, bright
yellow flowers burst off the bristles in a flourish of colour that provide a
great backdrop for portraits on the trail.
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| Me beside yellow broom bush |
After leaving the city, we walk through sun dappled country woods and pass ancient vineyards, part of practically every farm we pass. I learn later that the Portuguese are famous for their Vino Verde, a young wine, that fizzles because it hasn't entirely finished fermenting. In 2014, there were approximately, 19,000 of small growers in Portugal, down from nearly 20,000 in 1981. The vines are trained to follow posts and trellises above the ground so as to leave it available to grow vegetables.
As we approached the rise of the hill we are climbing, palatial houses with beautifully manicured gardens replace farm houses
and their utilitarian fields. Some homes of the rich mimic the traditional
stone houses of the past while others bear the features of modern architectural
masterpieces with flat roofs, floor to ceiling windows and smooth, stucco
walls.
Toward the conclusion this day's walk,
we cross the Ponte das Tabuas, a bridge that traverses a stream which empties
into a large, inviting pool created by a small dam. Like almost every other
perigrino on the trail, Nicola has her picture taken on the ancient
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| Sun dappled path |
stone bridge covered in vines and built centuries ago using a classic arch for support. I’d take many similar
pictures of Nicola on a beautiful medieval bridge as our journey continued.
In the guidebook, this stage of
the el Camino is supposed to be 35 kilometres starting in Barcelos and finishing Ponte Lima, a distance we are not going to finish in one day. So we, like many others, decide to break it in two. Just past Porte das
Tabuas, is the small town of Balugaes where we will find a room. Nicola read about the guesthouse, Quinta da Cancela, that provides pilgrims a special rate for a night's stay. However, when
we see a sign for Casa de Rio, Nicola thinks that's it. So, we follow signs to
that hotel until we hit an intersection and don't know which way to go.
We spot a few people standing outside a restaurant having a smoke. I ask them for directions and a tall, dark-haired woman in her 20s begins to yammer in Portuguese. Apart from a few movements of her arms, I understand nothing. Then, an
older man, in his 50s, beaming a toothless smile from a weather-beaten face, motions for us to follow him. We obey now followed by another, middle-aged German couple, who’d been steadily catching up to us since we’d turned into town. The male
side of the duo pushes ahead so that he and his wife will be the first to
arrive at our potential accommodations. What a douche!
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| The Maronesa - a primitive cattle breed of Portugal |
Our guide beams when we reach the gate
to large, palatial grounds. We extend a profusion of thanks and, deed well done, he returns to the bar. A short, dark, man well-dressed man greets us and
warns against approaching the geese. "They've just had babies and can be very aggressive," he says. Nicola and I chuckle remembering our son, Hart’s, unfortunate encounter with a
large goose in Bali that had taken a liking (or disliking) to his bright green
soccer shirt. I hate those birds, Canadian or otherwise, and can't image ever wanting to get near them.
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| A couple of hounds checking us out |
Our host leads us to a seating area across from the reception area where he Nicola and me a seat. The owner tells us that, because the German couple had arrived first, he
would register them first. Again, I think, what a douche. He and his wife might not have even arrived if I hadn't requisitioned the aid of our toothless guide.
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| Landscape extraordinaire |
The hotel consists of cottages scattered about the
park and we wonder if this really is the hotel Nicola read about in the
book. It seems far too lavish to be offering affordable deals to peregrinos. So, she double-checks the guidebook and discovers, lo and behold, it's not. In the meantime, the wife of the
German couple returns to the patio and I ask her what the rooms cost. She says 89€ but she had reserved her room through booking.com. Hmm, I wonder. What was the point in racing ahead if their room had already been booked. So, every time they pass us on the trail, I'd maturely remark, “There goes that prick
again.”
Since we hadn't booked online, we wonder what the price of a room would be for us. So, instead of waiting, Nicola uses my phone to check if Quinta da Cancela till has rooms and discovers that they had one for 70€. “Should I
book it?” she asks. I say yes and so she does.
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| Young grape vines being trained to grow above ground. |
When the son of the host shows up to register
us, Nicola tells him we already have a room at another hotel. He asks us to wait
for his dad. I wonder why but we need someone
with a key to let us through the gate so we wait. When his dad arrives,
Nicola repeats the statement she’d made to the son which quite rightly
confuses him. Maybe, you should have registered the asshole first, I think.
After some searching, we find Quinta
da Cancela and enter through a gate into large grounds which, unlike Casa de
Rio, aren't all grassed for the benefit of guests. Instead these grounds are covered in
grape vines and vegetable gardens. We nearly walk into a
cottage mistaking it for reception stopped just short of entering by a lady lounging in
a chair outside. Apparently, this is her room. She points us toward a large manor house and
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| Vineyard so old that the supporting stakes are made of stone |
discover the reception area and proprietor
on the ground floor of a two-story house. I think this was probably where the livestock had
once been kept.
The proprietor's a dapper looking middle-aged man wearing kakis, a button-down
long-sleeve shirt and Adidas Gazelle running shoes. I complement him on the
50s-jazz playing in the background and he says that I could listen anytime in
the kitchen and seating area around the side of the building.
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| Nicola (in the distance) on Porte das Tabuas |
After taking our information, he tells us
that he’d given away our room just as the booking.com reservation came in. However,
we are not to worry because he has perfectly adequate accommodations by way of
replacement. He takes us upstairs to the manor. We enter through a seating
area with a very old piano that seems to have been built before the time of the upright. Immediately to our right and through double doors is the
master bedroom complete with double bed, bedside tables, wardrobe and altar
with Jesus on a crucifix behind glass.
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| Casa de Rio |
Straight ahead is the living room with
couch, TV, liquor cabinet, china cabinet, two arm chairs and a weird tufted
tapestry of a parrot much like the moose-hide tuftings made by native women in
Canada’s north (except there are no parrots in Canadian tuftings.) At the end of the living room and to the right is a small room
with a crib and three entrances, one to a baby's room with crib, another to
a bedroom with a double bed, and the last, to the bathroom. In both the living
room and master bedroom we find window seats with
excellent views of the countryside. We are glad to have arrived with time to relax like a country gentleman (or gentlewoman).
Below our apartment, on the other side of
the reception is patio with a couple of rod iron tables and matching chairs. I
sit down in the sun, write in my diary and drink the beer I’ve retrieved from
the neighbouring kitchen. Purchases of alcohol both here and in our living room are based on the honour system. Write down what was taken and the price is added to the tab upon leaving.
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| Gate to Quinta da Cancela |
Not long after I sit down, two girls in
their early 30s arrived to sit at the other table, one thin with dark-haired
and tall and the other, short, stocky, and blond. Neither have been endowed
with particularly attractive looks but that’s okay. I enjoy listening to their conversation.
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| Entrance to manor |
It's alarming familiar. The blond, I
guess to be American and the brunette, British are discussing the rating a
restaurant had received on Trip Advisor. Nicola constantly updates me as to the
Trip Advisor rating of a restaurant she is considering we go to. Not wanting
to hear more of a conversation I’d heard far too often, I concentrate on my
diary until the blond reminds the brunette that she promised to give her names of
books she’d recommend for reading. They begin discussing the novel “Eileen” and
I couldn’t help but comment. Rude, I know but I had never met anyone else who’d
read the book and I wondered if the brunette found it as weird and wonderful
as I had. She gave some grunting reply and I went back to my diary.
About this time, Nicola joins me and we
decide to venture out to find a place to eat. A local winery has been given a
high rating from none other than Trip Advisor. So, off we go, down the
highway, up a long hill to gates that are undeniably closed. The place has a
terrific view and might have been nice.
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| Living room |
Unable to think of anywhere else, we
return to the restaurant where we’d met the toothless man and arm-waving
waitress. We enter an empty lounge with a few tables arranged in front of a
long, wooden bar. A rough looking guy with a day’s growth of beard and a bowl-shaped
haircut emerges from the kitchen and escorts us to a restaurant area at the
back. Although it has been renovated with a wood floor, wine rack and china
buffet, the stone walls looked hundreds of year older.
The guy does not speak English but he does ask if we spoke French. I say that I speak some. When we ask for wine,
he tells us that the local wines are cheaper and better tasting so we agree to try one. The bottle he brings has no label and it fizzes like a wine that
hasn’t been properly aged. I'm about to make a fuss when Nicola
remembers reading about “young wines” or vino verde.”
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A meandering streets we followed
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They’re unique to the region
and fizz. In fact, she says they artificially carbonate those for export for
fear they will age and lose their fizz before drunk overseas. At first, I don't
like it and then, as the alcohol begins to the effect, I enjoy it more.
The beef steak we ordered turns out to be cardboard
thin and tough. However, the fresh salad and potatoes provide a hearty
meal for hearty appetites.
Back in our room, we sit in the living room,
purchase wine from the honour bar and toast our first great day. Maybe the el
Camino isn't going to be as arduous as we had thought.
