Day 10, May 7, 2017, Arcade to Barros

Early morning light shining through leaves - magical

Like a Super 8 or Best Western, our hotel offers a complimentary breakfast but, unlike those hotels, this was European breakfast fare. It includes various cheeses, meats, croissants, and yoghurt. The coffee is terrible. We're alone and I wonder if there are any other guests in the hotel although, I think, by the spread, there must be a few.

The trail steadily climbs away from the coast and town. The early morning sun performs magic with the leaves and we tru our best to capture its iridescent glow illuminated against the black shadow of the branches. 

Fields give way to forest and then. We're delighted when we arrive at a café run by a stocky, hirsute  30-something  man constantly with cigarette in hand.  After getting He stamps our passports, we

Little Santa Maria Church

order our morning beer and then sit down in the cool of the shade outside. The proprietor sits at the table next to ours and two friends join for conversation at the next table 

One other pilgrim shares our space in the garden. We’d nodded a greeting upon arrival but now he keeps to himself. I’m never sure about the lone traveller, whether they seek company or if they’re on this trek in the hope of finding meaning to their existence and not just moments connected in any number of possible ways. 

Not far from the café, we pass a lovely little stone church by the name of Santa Maria. Four pews line one side and five crowd the other. A little table at the front holds a stamp and pen for pilgrims to stamp their passport. We did of course. 

When enter the outskirts of Pontevedra, we have another choice of following the main trail through the industrial zone or by detouring through a wooded area that's slightly longer. The detour follows a creek where many locals pass us on their Sunday outing either on foot or mountain bike, the younger usually preferring the bike. The constant winds wind of the flat, narrow trail cannot make the ride very exciting. 

Pontevedre bridge

After returning to the main trail and the roadway, both hot and dehydrated, we stop at a café for coke. On the tarmac besie the the patio where we sit with our drinks, a large, severe looking older woman boils oil in a pot over a propane burner. Then, using a long pair of tongs, she transfers huge octopi from a tub in the back of a truck and into the pot. A French couple about our age seated on the bench beside us look on in interest as do the rest of the guests on the patio. The man tells me he's going to wait the few minutes required for them to cook. "They're delicious," he tells me which may be true but I've really never gotten used to the sensation of suctions cups in my mouth. 

Like Porto Lima, Pontevedra is named after its bridge, also stone, medieval and picturesque. We follow the narrow, meandering streets 

Cathedral in Pontevedra

of the medieval city until we arrive at the central square overlooked by the 18th century baroque Church of the Virgin Peregrina. Just below two matching bell towers are three niches equidistant from the other. In the centre is a woman. Perhaps the virgin pilgrim and on each side are male pilgrims, each carrying a gourde. 

Being Sunday, the streets are very quiet. We learn that people had been partying into the early morning. We spot a café down an alley just a block off the main trail. Time to relax and soak in the atmosphere. I order two draft beer and two sandwiches and are told by the bartender to go have a seat. We find a table in the alley outside. Just to our right, one floor above our heads are three dogs lying on the balcony, heads hanging over watching the goings on in the street below. One is a small white puppy who's bored 
easily and moves off among the plants the dogs have to share their space with. A young, attractive Portuguese couple with a white fluffy Pomeranian looking dog sit at the table beside us and I wonder about bringing our own dogs to Spain. 

With some reticence, we leave our idyllic little spot to continue our journey onto Barros where there was supposed to be an alburgue we can stay for the night. The first few kilometres are through the outskirts of town. Then, 

Waiting for sandwiches

the trail hangs as it makes a steady climb. We cross train tracks and then spot the Café de Peregrino in the small town of San Amaro. We order a couple of draft beers and try sitting in the patio area partially shadowed by vines growing on a trellis overhead.  Unfortunately, it's too hot so we retreat to the bar inside. Thick stone walls keep the air cool in this very old cafe. The rich tones of the dark wood bar and furniture absorb the light making the air seem even cooler.   Two young guys we'd passed  and who'd then passed us sip cheap lager beer at a table by the entrance. They're strong and I'm a little jealous of their youthful bodies that don’t suffer from the aches and painsI must endure from my old bones. 

Nicola tries to order sandwiches to eat later for dinner. Our guidebook gives no 
indication that the albergue where we're headed has food nor does it indicate that there's a café or restaurant nearby. Unfortunately, the bar's about to close so we go down the road to its competition, very different in appearance and feel.


Local guys, two young and one older stand at a shiny aluminum bar. Large front windows make it look like a diner. We order potatas bravas, one chorizo sandwich and one ham and cheese sandwich from a young woman with long eye lashes and lots of make-up and looks about fifteen. During our  interminably wait for the food, we watch two guys at

Puppy checking the street action

the bar joined by a beefy looking fellow. He leans against the bar with the rest of them and  immediately takes control of the conversation.
When our food finally arrives, I noticed the potatas bravas are only French fries with hot sauce dribbled overtop. We never know what we're going to get when we order those things. Sometimes, they’re roasted had cut potato chunks with delicious light brown crust with spices cooked within. Other times, we get this crap. 

It's only a short walk to Barros and the alburgue. Across the valley, we watch passenger trains flash by. The alburgue's a converted school with two separate single story buildings. The first contains the kitchen, washroom and shower area and a room with bunks. The other building has two large rooms with mattresses that can be arranged however we like on the floor. Nicola and I pull a couple of

Nicola finds market

mattresses together in a line of seven along the far wall. Ours are situated next to a middle-aged French couple we’d seen a few times along the trail. As we're setting up, the man says to Nicola, "when we saw you back in Sao Pedro de Rates, we didn’t think there was any way you were going to make it." She smiles and proceeds with a long explanation about the way her ankle seizes up after lunch and how it takes a while to limber up before it behaves pretty much like normal. She could use a recording for that one for the number of times she's had to repeat it on the trip 

I wait to shower in the one stall available to men. The water is absolutely freezing. I find a chair in a grassy area behind the first building. A large number of chairs and a long series of tables provides space for anyone who might show up. I write in my diary while others hang laundry
 on a rack to my right. A lithe young American woman performs her yoga routine in front of all us seated in the area. 

When Nicola shows up, we purchase a couple of cheap lagers from the fridge sold on the honour system. A little while later, the host comes round asking who would like to pay the 7€ for dinner. Are you kidding? Sandwiches or a sit-down dinner. Nicola pays inside at the same time she 

Church with dude sitting outside

registers us and gets our passports stamped. Did you know we’re the oldest ones here? she says upon her return. No, I reply a little surprised because I thought there were lots of other potential candidates for that honour.

About 8:30, the host and his two female helpers call out asking for help to set the table. Too many of us respond and it becomes a competition as to who can grab a utensil or plate. I give up and sat down. A number of large salads are placed on the table that extend for maybe ten or twelve metres, enough to seat 26 people. There's fresh buns, spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce and wine. It's like something out of a painting or a movie. 

As the majority of guests are German, they are told by our host that one of them has to say the 

Supper. Nicola's about a third of the way down. 

prayer. After much hemming and hawing, a young woman volunteers. Included in the prayer is the name of every guest. To my surprise, I'm kind of moved. I'm also surprised when Nicola informs me that the entire meal is vegetarian.  

Once everyone has food, I wait to be served a glass of wine waiting in open bottles on the table. Eventually, I give up and do the honours pouring a glass for everyone within reach. We are introduced to a Polish couple across the table and I’m not sure if they're pleased or insulted when I tell them how surprised we was by the beauty of their country. He said they'd lived through some very hard times. 

To the left of the Polish couple are a group of girls, all from the Czech Republic. Besides the pouring of wine, we interact little and the appear to no little English as we know no Czech. Beside Nicola and much to our surprise is another Canadian. She's from Vancouver and had been on cruise before it disembarked in Porto. From there she’d started her camino. She talks about her dog. 

After dinner, Nicola and I take a short walk around the area. The setting sun lends a romantic aura to the old church we pass. 

Church with cemetery 

Beside the church are a series of stone boxes stacked on top of each other like stone filing cabinets pushed against each other in a long row. It's a cemetery we realize. 

Everyone is already in bed when we got back to our room at the alburgue. So, we undress and get into our sleeping bags as quietly as possible.

Tiny toilet for elementary students.