Day 4 - May 1, 2017, Barcelos to Balugaes

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.

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 

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!

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. 

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. 

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.

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 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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.”

A meandering streets we followed

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.