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 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