Day 8 - May 5, 2017, Tui to Mos

Nicola with her new backpack

At seven the next morning, we trudge through the rain to the El Camino store and restaurant next to our hotel for breakfast. We order croissants and coffee and find a table by the window in an open and brightly-lit restaurant that provides a welcome contrast outside.

After breakfast, Nicola purchases a backpack to replace the one she's been carrying. Most of the pilgrims carry packs considerably lighter than our own and she wants to do the same. We return to our room at the hotel to repack our items. She moves her's into the new backpack. I move mine into her's which is actually mine. I've been carrying her older, heavier backpack. We take that down to the El Camino store where the clerk kindly tells us that she will find a new home for it.

Eucalyptus Forest

Having shed ourselves of considerable weight, we are in high spirits despite the rain. We follow narrow lanes to the edge of town where a grouchy old German dude yells at us from behind. We'd missed a turn and were headed in the wrong direction. Who knows how far we'd have gone before realizing our mistake? We thank him profusely to which he responds with a dismissive wave.

We find ourselves walking through a beautiful eucalyptus forest and over yet another beautiful medieval bridge. The rain has stopped and sunlight on luminescent leaves overheard give a fairy-tale backdrop to the photograph I take of Nicola standing on that bridge. Not far from here, we arrive at the truly impressive mural of the Portico de Gloria, surprising in its detail and excellence considering that only foot and bike traffic can see it. To the left of the mural, someone has painted a picture of an elderly pilgrim with a cane in hand and a scallop shell on his hat, both symbols of the el Camino.

From here, we have a choice, make the shorter journey through the very ugly, industrial area of Perrino or take a slightly longer, more picturesque route through forest and farmland. We choose the latter. Residents have blacked out the yellow arrows for pilgrims wanting the detour. In fact, someone has spray painted “falsetto” over top of the arrows. Our guidebook warns us not to fooled by the attempts of cafe owners who might miss pilgrim  patronage 

Nicola on yet another beautiful medieval bridge

of their businesses should we make detour. We continue on in the "falsetto" direction and much to our relief, new yellow direction signs reappear after a few hundred metres indicating we are, in fact, on the trail. 

We pass through farmer fields and see a mountain partially dismantled for its abundance of granite rock to our right.. A man fishes downstream from a large industrial plant and wondered about the wisdom  of fishing a stream that smells so noxious. 

Mural

Just past the industrial plant, people wait outside the aubergue to assure themselves a bed for the night. It's barely noon so we continue to Mos, a small town between the larger metropolises of Porrino and Redondela. We pass many new houses built with the same heavy granite blocks that allowed their predecessors structures to survive for hundreds of years. 

Granite mountain

Fortune would shine upon us when the predicted heavy rains begin to fall and we spot the sign for a café 50-metres up the road. We dash in that direction instantly relieved to see that it's open. We join two other pilgrim couples who’d arrived ahead of us. We sit on long benches behind tables that could accommodate many more patrons. I order two beers and sandwiches plus get our perigrino passports stamped by the owner. My chorizo sandwich tastes especially good. 

Dude fishing - picturesque but smelly

While taking out rain coats and covers for our packs, I realize that I can’t recall packing my down sweater this morning. I open my bag and, sure enough, it's not there. Oh shit,  where did I leave it? It could be at the restaurant where we’d eaten the night before or at the hotel. I contact the restaurant and Nicola contacts the hotel. Not until later, does Nicola remember that I’d had it at breakfast that morning and that I’d probably left it at the el Camino restaurant and store. This proves correct and when Nicola asks if they can send it to Canada, they kindly oblige. They are so nice. We send them money for postage with the idea that they'll send us the coat. 

Local industry further upstream

After lunch, we climb about 100 metres over 7 kilometres through rain and overcast skies. Suburbs give way to farms until we reach the village of Mos. A lady cleaning the Café Flora registers us in the albergue. We walk across the street and then climb a long flight of stairs to claim our bunk bed,  me on the top and she on the bottom, a good two metres from the next closest sleeper, a big relief after our experience in Barcela. We also note the young age of the rest of the hostel guests making me most likely to snore. 

The size of the shower impresses me however my heart falls when I see the push-button control. Then I press it and enjoy the most perfect temperature I’ve experienced in showers with like controls. After the shower, I realize that we needed a towel. Nicola has given me a hand-towel that hardly works and she used a uses t-shirt. So, we check the el Camino store at the bottom of the hill and find just what we seek at a very reasonable price. I suggest we get two but Nicola will have none of that. The hand towel's fine with her. We go next door to the bar where we enjoy two large glasses of mediocre red wine plus assorted nuts for a grand total of 2€.

Forestry techniques

Café Flora has two sections, one open to the air and cold, the other enclosed and warm. We choose the enclosed one where a young American girl invites us to sit down with her and her boyfriend. I decline because I'm busy finishing a diary entry for a bunch of days earlier. At the other table sits a couple about ten-years older than ourselves from Holland wth woman who speaks English quite well. I don't learn where she was from. 

Along with other tapas, I order the chorizo with wine. This proves to be the same flaming chorizo we’d had in Porto earlier in the week. The lady serves us through a hole from the kitchen and from that location, with much bravado, she lights the alcohol in the dish over which the chorizo is suspended by a skewer. This causes much commotion and laughter in the restaurant as everyone watches while I burned my chorizo sausage to a crisp. 

After eating, I turn around and initiated conversation with the young American couple. (They'd be the only Americans would meet on the trail.) She says they live in New Jersey and started the pilgrimage in Tui because they could only get two weeks holiday out of the year. She and her boyfriend really believe the U.S. should  incorporate the European attitude of "working to live" rather than "living to work." Her mother had done the el Camino and felt that they should do the same. Part of that sameness included staying in the albergues. The Dutch couple were on their second el Camino. On the first, the lady had simply walked out of her house in Amsterdam and started her journey. We learned that she was the man's second wife and that he’d had to commute from Amsterdam to his place of work some distance away before he got transferred. 

We all enjoyed the evening and felt replenished with food and companionship when we went to bed that night. This night, I actually slept. 

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.