Day 11, May 8, 2017, Barros to Pontecesures

San Roque statue in Pedron

Even though we were packed and ready to go before 7:00 this morning, we are still among the last to leave. Everyone else is in the kitchen getting the breakfast they'd purchased on the honour system for 3€ apiece. We'd saved our sandwiches that we were going to eat last night. We figured we'd stop to eat them at a café with coffee along the road. The day is hot and we have little in mind but the completion of our journey, just three days away. We're excited because it will mean that we've achieved our goal, disappointed because it'll be over. 

In Caldas de Reis, we stop at the parish church where we admire a statue of the town’s patron saint, San Roque. Significant for me is the fact that he’s also the patron saint of pilgrims and dogs which I believe has symbolic significance. After all, what other creature has the ability to walk for long distances on two legs and what animal likes more to be taken for a walk?

We pass a number of autocafes where we could have purchased coffee from a machine with seating area in attractive surroundings. They all would have provided a more appealing locale than the supermarket with attached café where we finally stopped for breakfast. To our amusement and pleasure, the young, solitary German woman we’d seen off and on since Arcade is seated in the same café. 

Factory

We choose at a table by the window in the spartan room with one long bar, tables and little else. An older Spanish lady, the only other restaurant patron, has asked  the German lady why she'd embarked on the Camino for a second time. She replies that she needed time to think. Her pithy and complete response leaves a deep impression on me. What other other activity allows for vast amounts of time for contemplation? 

For me, walking is about the thinking but it's also about the not thinking. At the beginning of the day, the walk feels liberating but, by the end, it can begin to hurt thoughts become a simple counting. One step after the other. I'll put on my earphones and listen to music or an audiobook or a podcast and I won't think of anything else. If I can put my concentration on what I'm listening to and not my pain, then the only other thought that will be going through my head is how far it is. If you've been plagued by concerns that feel like they're going to overwhelm you, then the pain of the walk can be liberating. And, unlike injury or disease, it stops when you stop walking. As Bruce Chatwin says, "Mans' real home is not a house, but the Road, and that life itself is a journey to be walked on foot."

The road past café provides constant views of Pontecesures, our destination, in the distance. We just watch it get closer and closer. A factory is the most prominent landmark of the city and is located just across the river from the hotel where we're staying. Unfortunately, the room we're given does not afford a view of that river and the medieval bridge just down the road. 

Our Hotel with the potted plants

After putting our bags in the room, showering and changing our clothes, we take a short walk along the river with a view completely dominated by the factory. Interestingly, the only information I can find about a factory in the town is for Nestle condensed milk so maybe that was it.

Dinner turns out to be a complete disappointment. We wanted tapas and the girl, who also booked us into our hotel has no idea what we're talking about. We end up with a very boring hot potato plate and two giant plates of fish, neither of which has been prepared in a manner that made what can be termed a culinary delight. 

We retire to our room early that night and start the movie, “Night Train to Lisbon” starring Jeremy Irons. I’d read some of the novel.  It's about an older teacher who stops a girl he meets on a bridge from committing suicide. She comes back to his classroom and then disappears leaving behind a book that begins the mystery of the story. Where's the girl who left this book? The teacher travels to Lisbon to learn about the author of the book the girl has left and the identity of the girl. From his research, we learn about Portugal and the uprising under Antonio Salazar. 

Nicola likes the movie. I fall asleep. 

Ponte Cesures

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.

Day 9 - May 6, 2017, Mos to Arcade

View down from cafe

Having gotten on the trail prior to 7:00 a.m., we decide not to have breakfast in Mos at the Café Flora but to eat later on down the road. We follow country roads up another 100 metres until we reach the summit of our walk at Parque Alto before making the steep walk down to the coastal city of Rendondela. At the park, we spot the sign for a café 100 metres down the road in the other direction. Unfortunately, we find it closed and realize that it's Sunday and worry that we may not be able to eat for another hour.

As we return to the main path, we spot the Dutch couple who slow for a short chat and then move on at the blazing speed the woman seems to set for them. With a steep, downward path, we now have views of lush green fields and vineyards and the red, terracotta tiles that cover many of the farm 

Albergue in Rendondela

houses. Just above the horizon, passenger jets glide their way into the airport in Vigo just to the south of us. Much to our relief, we spot the sign for a café in an old country farm house perched on the side of the hill.

Inside, we make polite chit chat with the Dutch couple again They leave and we move with our coffee and pastries to the table by the window to enjoy its spectacular view of the valley. 

I nearly forget to pay my bill as we pack up to go. Unlike North America when we order at the bar, we pay before we receive our food or beverage. Here, custom holds that bills aren’t settled until the customer leaves. So, sometimes I forget.

It's an easy 4 km. walk downhill to the busy city of Rendondela. At an intersection toward the centre of town, we spot a nun carrying a backpack and wearing hiking boots. I get kind of excited thinking that she may be on the el Camino when the bus arrives and she arranges for her pack to be loaded underneath. Oh well.

The albergue here is located in a 16^th century tower house that’s been renovated with modern

Door with scallop, cross and gourd

 facilities. Very beautiful but closed so we can't even take a look or get our passports stamped.

After a number of false starts, we find Iglesia de Santiago just up the road from the albergue. Above the door, we is carved a scallop shell with a crucifix and stick with a gourde crossed behind, pilgrim symbols Inside, a nun converses with a priest in front of the altar and we hesitate because we don't want to interrupt. I remove my hat and we make our way inside. About half-way up the aisle, the nun turns and asks if we have passports. We nod and she indicates for us to follow her to a room just to the right of the altar. I wish I’d taken a picture or even asked permission but I didn’t. The room is panelled in dark wood with many book shelves and lit by a high, large, stained-glass window and the furnishings are very old. I wish I had the nerve to ask permission to take a photo. 

Upon leaving the church, we return to the albergue hoping to find the familiar arrows and scallop shells that mark the route for the el Camino. In towns and cities, probably for reasons of appearance, these tend to be located in unobtrusive locations such as the bottom edge of a building or on a curb and so can be 

Hórreo

hard to find especially with a lot of pedestrians in the way. 

We follow a number of narrow lanes and it’s here I first notice a hórreo, the ancient bin used to store grain for centuries . The large rectangular structure about 10 metres in length and less than half as wide, made of stone with narrow slits that allows air to pass through to dry the grain. They're built on stilts with six large round pedestals to prevent the rats and other vermin from climbing in. Nicola tells me that they’re considered part of the country’s heritage and so the people aren’t allowed to remove or destroy them.

We follow the coast past farms with their small plots of land. All is a lush and iridescent green. we climb one last hill through a forested area before a relatively steep descent into Arcade, our destination for the night. It’s early but the next town where we could stay is Pontevedra, another 13 km. down the road, just a little too far. 

Nun with backpac

The albergue is perched atop a hill overlooking the bay and a suspension bridge in the distance, nice but we've decided to take a break from hostels for the night. We cross another beautiful medieval bridge over the Rio Verdugo and I take another picture of Nicola.

We stop for a short chat with an Australian couple we'd met seated at a table in front of an ancient, charming stone building that houses the Café a Romana. Nicola believes the girl originates from Scotland where they are headed after the el Camino. Their appearance is typical of many other pilgrims on the albergue. From a distance, they look a lot younger than they are in actuality. 

We detour a kilometre off the trail to get to our hotel by the highway. (Nicola didn’t know this at the time of booking.) It's like a North American Super 8 except in Portugal.
On the way, we passed houses perched precariously above the river to maximize the view. Then, a short, uncomfortable walk along the highway with cars and trucks whizzing past,  and we book into our hotel on the third floor with a room overlooking the highway and, 

View of bay from Arcade

in the distance, bay. We wash our clothes and hang them to dry on a narrow, enclosed balcony. We try opening the windows to the enclosure but are immediately greeted by the loud drone of speeding vehicles.

Nicola in front of another beautiful medieval bridge

Nicola check the local restaurants nearby in Trip Advisor and discovers one just down the highway that features seafood and is considered by people in surrounding area as the place to eat. So, we walk 20-minute down the highway, past a large green field house with moss and grass growing on the roof. We would have thought it derelict except we hear music coming from inside. 

The restaurant sits perched on an escarpment overlooking the bay on one side and river on the other. We enquire about seating and the waitress replies that they are about to close but will reopen at 8:00. So, we reserve a table resolve to wait three hours before eating.  

Watching football (soccer) in cafe Arcade. 

With most of the afternoon evening to fill, we return to the Café a Romana by the ancient bridge and and order two beers, which, in the small towns of this country, automatically comes included with tapas. We sit outside with a view of the river and the bay beyond. Four local guys at the table beside us discuss football and joke and kill an afternoon doing what young guys do. 

Guys watching football outside at bar in Tui.

The downtown area provides little in the way of diversion. So, we stop at a cafe for coffee where we sit outside. Inside a bunch of men watch soccer on television all seated facing the television. They don't even pretend to be social. 

Down the hill, we search for a route to the water's edge. Nicola pointlessly shops for clothing while I wait on the curb outside and watch the cars go by. At 8:03, the hostess of restaurant door tells us to return in a half-hour when the cooks arrive. Our patience tested, we wander over to a small park to witness some dude abuse his very old dog. This wait better be worth it. 

The impossibly large serving of assorted fish

Back at the restaurant, a waitress with shaved head save for bangs across one side, seats us at a window table. After she brings us the menu, we admire the fantastic view of the bay that features a middle-aged man jogging, a number of boats stranded on sand by low-tide, and houses, hotels and restaurants straddling the coast. A suspension bridge provides a dramatic backdrop in the distance.. 

We order the variety plate for a very reasonable price meant for a minimum of two persons, far too much for us to consume.  It's delicious and rationalize the wait worthwhile. 

Nicola enjoying view

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.