We wake. Actually we get woken. Usually by some numpty who decided that a series of 7 plastic bags was a great way to store stuff in their pack. They usually rise just when you have hit your deepest sleep and your body is starting to forgive you for the pain you inflicted upon it yesterday. But no, their symphony of scrunching and crunching wakes you. Your Achilles aches and is close to being frozen solid. Your hips are where you point to when the Doctor holds up a doll and asks you where it hurts. My shoulder still hurts from old rugby injuries as well as the fall when I slipped on ice in Roncesvalles over a month ago. You check the time. That extra 73 minutes of sleep would have been really great. Thanks plastic bagger!
You lie in bed when you know you should get up and pack, neck a coffee and some toast and then hit the road. But as you lie there, all you can think about is just being still for a day. Not moving at all, just being. But somehow you will your body to get out of the bunk and get on with the day.
Within the hour, you are back walking. Didn’t I just finish this a few minutes ago? Why am I walking again? Oh look at the pilgrim’s toys hanging from their pack. Look at their shoes, nothing but blisters and pain there. I hope they have a hat, this cloud will burn off soon and we’ll have nothing but sun all day. Am I getting a blister? Should I stop to remove that tiny pebble from my shoe. Am I hungry? Do I care? As you follow a line a pilgrims weaving through the streets of a town or down a country lane or a tiny little track or over a bridge, you continually think – this whole thing’s absurd!
The Camino hamster wheel breaks you down when you hit the last 100km. I certainly never thought this was absurd as I ate pinchos with James, Simone, Anthony, Donna, Jazz and Sam in Pamplona. Or shared drinks in Logroño with Alice, Siobhan, Xavier and Nathalie. Or watched Basil Fawlty throw pizzas with Mikael and Mads in Castrojeriz. Or walked and talked about life with Karin.
I think it’s been too many bunk beds, too many broken nights sleep, being woken too early, too much repacking and moving on. Walking. Walking. Walking. James and I are ready just to rest. But before we can, we have one more big day. No more faffing around.
After a little over 30km today, we have 37 more tomorrow to reach Santiago de Compostela. Like James and Leo, we’ve booked a hotel room for tomorrow night and the night after #incentivise. Yep, we’ve totally incentivised ourselves to get there.
There are other more important reasons other than a nice room. Mikael and Mads have arrived in Santiago this evening and don’t leave until Friday morning. It would be so great to have a catch up with them. And Peter from Seattle too.
Anyway, back to the hamster wheel. This morning we rise to a fine day in Palas del Reí. The forecast was for a warm day, so we dressed light even though it was only 8 degrees when we started out. It was only a matter of minutes before we joined the conga line of pilgrims heading out of town. We powered on to the village of Casanova (see above photo, move on). We stopped for a break and caught up with a few familiar pilgrims. There a quite a few pilgrims who you see every few days, but circumstance and the language barrier prevents any meaningful connection. There was a lovely old Italian guy who we saw everyday for weeks. He didn’t speak a word of English and I only had the two Italian words I knew, “ciao” and “prego”. He would always smile and laugh as we crossed paths and we would smile and give him a big, “ciao prego!!!”
Back to today’s trail. The hamster wheel had us going down to cross a creek, then up, then down to cross a creek, then up, then down to cross a creek. You get the idea. It’s a form of Camino torture.
The eucalyptus plantations we saw yesterday were even more extensive today. In the warm sun, they released their aroma and we were reminded of home. I love that smell so much.
Before reaching Melide, we stopped in a little village as a lady was offering wax sellos (stamps) for credenciales. I stupidly was first in line. The lady kept barking something at me in Spanish. I shrugged my shoulders. Then she pointed to a sign. Yes, I would like the wax with a little scallop shell. She barked at me again and pointed to the sign. For 2€ this was getting a little much for me. Then a lady next to me said, do I want the conche or feet in the wax. The shell I said. The lady proceeded to make a hash of the whole thing. When she finished I offered her the only cash I had, a 50€ note. This was too much for her. James stepped in and offered to pay for mine as he and Leo also got the wax stamps. The woman shrugged and then waved me away dismissively. All good, I thought, the stamp looked pretty good. Then I realised she had the last laugh, she had put it in upside down.
After however many hours, miles or kilometres (choose your poison), we walked into Melide.
We snaked our way into the centre of town and the centre of the pulpo universe, Pulpería Ezequiel. If you’re not familiar with this Galician delicacy, basically it is octopus cooked til tender, sliced into small pieces and then dressed with paprika, salt and olive oil. You are given tooth picks to eat it. When done well, it’s quite delightful.
From Melide, we made tracks. We still had about 14km to cover and a belly full of beer and pulpo would not help.
We stop 3km from Arzua at Ribadiso for beers and ice cream. A strange mix, but somehow it works.
It’s a steep walk up into the town of Arzua where we have single beds, not damn bunk beds, for the night.
As usual on our hamster wheel, we check in, get stamps, choose a bed, dump our packs, have showers, rest, look at rooms for the next evening, have a cold beer, rest, move with great pain and stiffness, blog. The whole thing’s absurd!
Dinner is at an Italian restaurant that is empty when we enter and packed to the brim when we leave. They encourage drawing on the walls, reminiscent of the fondue restaurant in Paris.
We enjoy a great meal and a lovely 2017 Reserve Rioja.
Now we are once again ready for bed even though the sun hasn’t set. Pilgrims are tired, sore and angry buggers.
The Long Camino 