My Camino 3rd October 2006 to 19th October 2006-11-07

My Camino 3rd October 2006 to 19th October 2006-11-07

The Prologue

Tuesday 3rd October

I’m writing this in my room in pension Gurea in Bilbao, delighted and relieved to have a roof over my head and a bed to lie on. It was beginning to look dodgy for a while. There appeared to be no room in the inn. A stable would have been inviting but there doesn’t seem to be any of them in Bilbao either.

It had all started very well. I got off the plane, got my luggage from the carousel no bother and found my way to the exit of the terminal. How easy can it be. The guy stacking the trolleys couldn’t speak any English but he unhesitating pointed me in the direction of the bus. I get the feeling he has been asked the question many times before. On getting on the bus I strike up a conversation with a young lad beside me. He speaks good English. He was just returning from a short break in Ireland and had made it as far as Kilkenny and Malahide as well as Dublin. He works in a laboratory, he told me as we passed the Barclays Bank branch in Bilbao.

I asked him where I would get the train to Leon and he said he was going that way himself. He had actually misunderstood. He was going to a district in Bilbao with a similar name. However, we put that right and he tells me to get a ticket to Abando and follow the signs in the station to Abando – Renfe, where I will see the ticket office to buy my ticket to Leon.
I find the ticket office without a lot of bother and go to the information desk to find out when the next train to Leon is due. The girl at the desk has enough English to understand what I am asking but simply writes down the details on a piece of paper, obviously meaning that I should bring it to the ticket desk and hand it to the attendant, thus overcoming the language barrier completely. It says "9.15 manana €45 – Leon".

I’m beginning to feel a bit ashamed of myself for coming to somebody else’s country and not even bothering to learn even the very rudiments of their language.

I cross the room to the ticket desk. There is a group of three people at the desk, one lady behind them and then me. The people at the desk are taking ages and the lady in front of me is shifting from foot to foot impatiently. She turns round to me and raises her eyes to heaven. I ask her if she can speak English and she says she can speak a little. Her little is considerably better than my Spanish, so I ask her how I would ask for my ticket in Spanish. "un bataille par a Leon, nuevo a quarto, manana" I repeat it and she corrects me until I get it right to her satisfaction. By this stage quite a few other people have come into the office. They are not interested in a crazy Irishman’s Spanish lesson. What’s going on at the desk is far more interesting.

Apparently the computer wouldn’t authorise change for the customers, so two managers were called. All had a go at battering the computer, shouting at it and at each other but the computer was having none of it. It just got more stubborn. They eventually conceded defeat and opened another window. This computer was much more co-operative and it wasn’t long before I was practising my new language skills. It worked. I got my ticket no bother.

I now had to find somewhere to stay in Bilbao. My teacher had told me that there were plenty of hostels in the old town. She pointed out the window and said "that’s it out there, not far" Well it wasn’t if you happen to turn in the right direction when you go out the front door. I didn’t. I turned in the opposite direction. Before long I am walking through what is clearly the very fashionable shopping area.

I walk for ages trying to remember where I am in relation to the Railway Station I have just left but there is not a hotel to be seen. I begin to recognise this area. Oh yes, there is the Barclays branch I saw earlier before I took the train to Abando! At least I know where to get the train back to where I started.

I walked the feet of myself but only hotel I saw was a five star Carlton. Would they let a vagabond with a rucksack in?

Eventually, a young man with a baby in a buggy pointed me in the direction of the main station. I was becoming very dehydrated and bought a bottle of "aqua mineral" in the Burger King. I’m back at the main railway station at Abando. My Spanish was clearly coming on by leaps and bounds. The boy who served me was delighted with the opportunity to practice his English. He pointed me in the direction of the old town which was literally only a stones throw away.
The first two hotels I went into were fully booked for that evening and I was beginning to get seriously concerned that I might end up sleeping on a park bench, if I could find one.
However the lady in the second hotel showed me down a side street where she said there were a couple of hotels that might have "habitations". (or maybe weren’t so fussy about people with rucksacks.

Eventually, I find Pension Gurea. It’s on the third floor of an old building in a narrow medieval street. The ground floor is in shops and the others consist of apartments, just like you see in "A Place in the Sun".

I painfully climb the stairs and ring the bell. I half expect it to be somebody’s apartment and that they’ll think I’m the Betterware man, but the young man who answers seems to guess I’m after a room and invites me in to Reception. He hasn’t got a single room but has "the best room in the house", a family room with balcony at €45. I’m not in a position to turn up my nose. It’s 9pm and I’m dreadfully short of options. He’s very interested in my passport.

"How do you say the name of your country as it is written on your passport?"
I tell him "Eire"
"Why do you ask?"
"I am interested in these things. Your language is called Gaeilge and Scotland is Alba"
I’m impressed.
"While we’re on the subject, why do some notices say Bilbao and some Bilbo?" I ask him.
"The Spanish call it Bilbao because they find it hard to say Bilbo, so they fit the "a" in. but it doesn’t make any sense. Bilbo means " on two sides of the river". He explains.
"Oh, so you are not Spanish?"
"No, I am Basque. You are in Basque now. Bilbo is the biggest city in the whole of Basque. We are not Spanish"

I’m tired and being from Northern Ireland, can see the direction the conversation is taking, so I ask him to show me my room.

The room is large spotlessly clean and very basic. The floor is varnished wood. There is a double and a single bed, all dressed with brand new linen. The bathroom suite also seems to be brand new. He proudly brings me over to the open French windows with veranda. It is directly over the street and the racket is quite loud. I ask him will the noise keep going for long. He looks at his watch.
"Nine o’clock. It will stop in half an hour".

Having sorted myself out, I wander out into the street again in search of a meal. I find a little restaurant around the corner, next door to a two-star hotel and across from another pension. The things you come across when you are not looking for them!

I have a Spanish omelette but can’t finish it. I’m too tired. I get the feeling that the wee man who owns the place is not going to be too pleased and sure enough when I go to pay the girl who is taking my money draws his attention to the fact that I had not finished my meal. With lots of gesticulations and grunts, I get him to understand that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the meal but that I have been travelling all day and am just too tired to eat.

Having restored calm, I head back towards the pension. The street is a hive of activity. The shops are all open and are doing lots of business. A black guy a few doors up is doing an excellent impression of Elvis with full pre-recorded backing. I don’t know if he actually intends it to be an impression but when he changes song he sounds like Frank Sinatra. Maybe he’s just like the mynah bird in Dublin zoo that imitates the sound he hears exactly.
A bit further down, there is a juggler who is OK but occasionally drops the batons and is very aggressive to the passers-by, demanding money.
It’s just gone 9.30pm and the noise has stopped, just like somebody had turned off a switch. I think I’ll take that as my cue.


Wednesday 4th

Leon

It was a long boring train journey to Leon. Anne sent me a text asking asking had I seen any pilgrims yet. I didn’t until the train stopped at Burgos. A couple of young guys with rucksacks got on. I presumed they were pilgrims. This is not the type of place you would come to for any other reason. The area between Burgos and Leon is called the Meseta. It is very flat and looked ideal for walking especially for someone like me who has practised along the coastal path.

When I left the station in Leon, I turned left thinking I was following the instructions in the guide book which were not very helpful as they were intended for people who were approaching the city on foot. I got near San Marco but could not find any sign for an Albergue (Refugio). I bought a bottle of water from a kiosk. The man in the kiosk had no English but it turned out his directions were perfect. I showed him the instructions in my guide. He seemed to recognise the street names and pointed me in the right direction and told me to keep going until I came to the Arena. I guessed that the Arena was somewhere special but wondered did he have the same meaning for Arena as I did. I walked for a fair distance and stopped to look at my map. An elderly man who saw me looking at my map came over and told me to cross the river on the footbridge. Against my better judgement I did and soon realised that I was wrong and retraced my steps. I really needed this! I asked a young teenage girl on her way home from school again showing her the instructions in my guide. She too mentioned the arena and added her one English word "long, long"

Further along the road I met two women pushing a baby in a buggy with a young girl of about eight alongside. Again I showed them the name of the road I was looking for and again there was a lot of gesticulating. The little girl thought the whole thing was hilarious and went into fits of laughter. Again the advice seemed to be the same. Look out for this arena and you will find the Albergue. I walked on and eventually came to a massive round building on its own island in the middle of the road and right beside a sign pointing down the road to "Albergue de los Pergrinos". I had found my first albergue.

It was a youth hostel with part set aside for pilgrims and it was excellent. I was sharing a room with three other men. Alfredo was in his forties or perhaps fifties. Edu and Donato were perhaps thirty. They were good friends and though they walked individually always agreed to meet up in the evenings. Alfredo was from Madrid and the other two were from the Leon region.
They were anxious to show me how they celebrated. This was the eve of the feast of St Froilan, the local patron and there would be a lot of festivities in the town. They explained that we would go to a number of bars and have a little wine and a small plate of food which they called tapas. When that was finished, they would move on to the next bar and do the same and so on until they decided to call it an evening. They were mindful that we had to walk the next day.
Alfredo had gone to meet friends and we would meet him in the old town square. We did. He had other ideas. He had booked us into an upmarket restaurant which was very quiet compared to most of the ones we passed which were heaving with people out for the night. He square was set out in stalls selling all the usual things you get at carnivals. At the top of the square there was a large stage. A group rather like the Clancy Brothers was singing Spanish ballads and sounded great. I would have liked to have sat in one of the seats and enjoyed the concert but the lads wanted to get stuck into the grub.

They ordered several platters and promised to tell me what each one was as it arrived. They also ordered a litre of water and a bottle of wine. Alfredo, who turned out to be a food and wine writer in Lisbon, entertained the company with tales of the strange customs they have in Britain and Ireland. " They don’t drink much at all during the meal, but once it is over they drink all evening"
The other two thought this was very funny.

On the other hand, we got a full glass of water to begin with. It was replenished when necessary and the wine wasn’t touched until the water was finished. Then a small amount of wine was put in each glass and topped up when necessary. The one bottle did all evening.

Each platter was put in turn in the centre of the table and we helped ourselves from it. The first was a mixed salad, then a local ham dish, then chicken followed by black pudding. It is not make into sausages like in Ireland but left loose on the platter.
When the meal was over, we went to another bar where we had another glass of wine and tapas. After that, having duly honoured St. Froilan, we went back to the albergue and bed.

Thursday 5th

On the road, at last.


Got up and set off on the first real day of walking the Camino. I feel quite lonely. The lads had warned me not to be too adventurous on my first few days. They agreed that Virgen del Camino, about 7kms, would be enough for the first day. Edu had told me the general direction but I felt I had to see the cathedral first and get breakfast. I found a café near the cathedral and had a filled roll, later to be known as a bocadillo, and a cup of tea.

I then walked around the cathedral and realised that when you have seen one medieval cathedral, you’ve pretty much seen them all. Anyway, I was itching to get started on the real walk.

I headed in the direction that Edu had indicated and very soon met an elderly man who was obviously a pilgrim and who, it turned out had walked from his home in France. He had by this stage a well-trained eye for picking yellow arrows and we walked through the rest of the city together meeting up with two women from Holland, Lynn and Vandela as we went. At this point, I got a text from Mairead, asking me where I was. It was a difficult question to answer as I wasn’t sure myself. Somewhere on the outskirts of Leon. The French man saw a bar and asked me if I would like to stop for a beer. I declined. Beer doesn’t fit at ten in the morning.
I started talking to Lynn. She told me she had done the Camino before with her husband but was now doing it with her "friend girl".

As we walked through an industrial estate, more and more people emerged from the side roads. At first I thought they must have been from the factories but I began to notice that many of them were families with young children. I then remembered that it was the feast of St. Froilan and that they were all off work. "Just like St. Patrick’s day", as Alfredo had said the previous night.

Lynn had heard that there was a fiesta in Virgen. Obviously that’s where they were all headed.
When we reached the village, it was a hive of people. The police were out in force directing the traffic and blasting their whistle at anybody who didn’t respond quickly enough. Outside the bars people were eating and drinking. We had to walk on the road and weave our way between the traffic. This was clearly something that had been looked forward to and prepared for since the previous one. Even elderly couples sat with their bottles of rose, soaking up the atmosphere.
We bought quarters of loaves. I just followed the person in front and got enough to feed an army for €2. We then found seats outside a bar and sat and had lunch.

Since it was a good day and we were feeling fresh, we decided to push on a little further.
We followed the instructions in the guide where the way split. We followed the arrows that brought us under the flyover. I had intended to go the walker’s route. Linda’s friend appeared to do what Lynn said and a man from Geneva who had been walking for three months also thought the best way was the road route.

This was the first major lesson reinforced. Alfredo had repeated often during the short time I had been with him "It’s your camino, do what you want". I followed the leader. When we had walked about two kms, a man out walking his dog told us to turn back because the way was blocked. Lynn didn’t even stop to listen but just walked on. The man from Geneva and Van entered into a heated debate with him. I didn’t understand a word but got the general gist of what was going on. I walked on expecting to see Lynn on her way back. By now she was out of sight. When I got to the next house, a man came running down the garden gesticulating. It was clear that he was telling me not to go any further that the way was blocked. I went back and told the other two but they decided to go on. I followed. Not very much further on we found out the reason for the commotion. New motorways had been built and others were still unfinished. The path came to a complete end. Security fencing had been erected to prevent anybody from going on. They hadn’t bargained for our three intrepid peregrinos. We could see Lynn in the distance preparing to climb over the fence. Her rucksack had already been dumped over the fence and she was preparing to scale it. The guy from Geneva decided it would be best if we all crossed one at a time. This was at a point where three motorways converged and there was a continuous flow of traffic.

I decided to leave them to their folly and returned the way I had come. It wasn’t that far and I needed water. It had become very hot.

I went back the whole way to Vergin and bought four bottles of water and drank one straight away. I then headed for a small patch of green that was reserved for pilgrims which we had noticed the first time we had been here. I decided to sit down and rest. There was another pilgrim there, a man of about thirty from Poland called Christopher. He had just got in from Brussels at 4.30am and was very tired. He had walked parts of the Camino before. We decided we would walk on and try to find the walker’s route. We seemed to be reinvigorated and made great time. He told me about what life was like in Poland under communist rule. I found this fascinating, as I had never heard about life under communism from somebody who had had first hand experience of it before.

Before we knew it we were in San Miguel del Camino. We thought we would look for a hostel for the night. As we walked into the village we came across Lynn and Van sitting on a doorstep. They were waiting on a bus to Astorga. They had, with great difficulty crossed the motorways and eventually found their way here, quite exhausted. They had not seen the man from Geneva since before they crossed the road.

Christopher walked on into the village to see if he could find somewhere to stay. I walked back a bit to El Rincon de Julia, a bar that was recommended in the Guide. I asked the barman if he had any rooms. He beckoned a young woman. She could speak perfect English in an accent that sounded vaguely familiar. I asked her for a room. She said they didn’t do rooms. I took out my guide and showed her the entry for the bar. I then realised that it did not mention rooms, only that there were good reports of the food. To make matters worse she told me that there was nowhere in the village that did rooms and that I would have to walk on to Villadangos, "only about an hour up the road". She had got really excited about the entry of the bar in my guide. Her mum was the Julia of the title and she asked me for a lend of the guide to show to her mum.
When she returned I asked her where she had learned her English. She told me she had gone to a summer college in Dublin when she was thirteen. So this was the background of all those students I use to see around Tallaght in the summer! I knew I had heard that accent before.
She told me they had stopped serving but that she would see what was left over and get me something. I settled for soup and got a cup of tea while I was waiting. The soup was a plate of greasy looking liquid with half a crab in the middle, legs pointing to the sky. It was horrible. It was like trying to swallow luke warm sunflower oil. There was no point complaining. I needed all my energy for the walk ahead.

The path followed the main road and was very flat. This was something like I had imagined it would be like on my walks on the coastal path alongside Belfast Lough when preparing for the Camino, counting down the kms to get to my destination at a reasonable hour. It was now 6.15 p.m. I got to Villadangos around 7pm. As I entered the gates of the Albergue I got a text from Anne. "Have you reached the refugio yet?" What timing!




Friday 6thOctober 2006

How to make a bad situation worse!


The day didn’t start that well. The night watchman had to get the bus, so he literally turfed us out of the Albergue. We finished our packing for the day on the lawn.

I decided to hunt for breakfast. The only café that was opened was on the main street, slightly off the pilgrim path. I got tea and a ham filled role. The ham was as tough as leather but it served its purpose.

I set out following the sign which eventually led to a path along the main road to Hospital de Orbigo. I sent Anne a photo of it by text. It went well until I came to a part where the path forked between a farm path and the main road. I followed the farm path because the yellow arrows were on the inside of the crash barriers and could not therefore have been seen by anyone who would have been, by this stage on the main road. Also I didn’t think the trail would have led me to the hard shoulder. I had not gone that far when I heard someone shouting. It was two cycling pilgrims on the road. With hindsight, they were probably trying to tell me that I was on the wrong track, but as they were speaking some language other than English, I thought they were wishing me "Bon Camino".

I wasn’t worried at first because the farmer had left tracks between the one I was on and the road. So I reckoned that I could always head to the road if necessary. Just as I was beginning to think I should soon be seeing signs of civilisation, the track began to veer sharply to the right, away from the road. I ploughed on. Eventually, I saw the spire of a small church in the distance. It developed into a little hamlet. Hospital at last!

I cut off the track down to the village. When I got to the main street, it was deserted except for one grandfather pushing his grandchild in a buggy type car. He looked at me with pity written all over his face.

"Hospital dos kms," he said pointing back down the road. My heart sank. I now realised that I had taken the wrong road and would now have to back track down the main road. I was tired, hungry and my water was finished. I decided to hitch a lift but this was a quiet country road and I couldn’t expect many passing cars.

Within a few minutes a car did come. It stopped. It had a man and a woman in it. I explained my predicament to them. The woman had some English. She translated. She told me to put my sack in the back and jump in. They drove me to Hospital. When we got there they show me the old Roman bridge on which cars are prohibited and then gave me a little tour of the town, showing me the Mayors house and the best places to eat, and left me as near as possible to the two Albergues.

I went to the albergue that used to be the parish house rather than the newer one, Albergue San Miguel because it was the first one I came to and because it was cheaper. Big mistake!

It was quaint, to say the least. Through the entrance, from the pavement, there was a room at either side of the hall. Straight ahead, through another was a cobbled courtyard with a garden on one side. The gable of the house next door, had a painting of a rustic scene made to look like an extension to the garden. On two tables in the middle of the courtyard, bowls of fruit were left out for the benefit of the pilgrims but seemed to be of most interest to the songbirds. Thrushes and finches had become quite tame and helped themselves to the point that humans felt less inclined to touch them.

The hospitaleros, who could speak English, welcomed me and said I looked exhausted. I told her what happened. A young woman was sitting on a pew nearby. She looked red eyed as if she had been crying but she looked up and smiled. The hospitaleros showed me around the showers, outdoor kitchen and bedrooms. The bedrooms were at one side of the courtyard and the showers and toilet at the other. Not great planning for anybody who was caught short during the night. Ominously, it was beginning to rain now.

As I crossed the courtyard, the young woman began to talk to me. Her name was Carolha. She told me just to call her Carol. She was from the eastern side of Berlin. As we talked an elderly man came over and asked us if we would like to join him to a glass of cheap wine. We both agreed. This was a bit of a joke because Carol had just been explaining to me that she was trying to make up her mind whether she should stay here or push on another bit. The offer of the wine seemed to swing it.

The old man was Dick from New Mexico and he was walking with his wife Judith. He was 74 and she was 72. It made me feel like a young thing! Both could speak Spanish because that is a commonly spoken language in New Mexico. In fact Dick occasionally introduced himself as Ricardo. We were also joined at the table by Francoise and her husband Claude from Brittany and by another couple from Belgium whose names unfortunately I do not remember. All were in their sixties.

Inevitably the conversation came around to why we were all doing the Camino. Carol told us she had two sons, 18 and 16. The younger son was a great sportsman. He had a health problem that impeded his progress at sport. His sternum was pressing on his heart and the doctor recommended that he have surgery. They were told that while it was major surgery, it would be of great help to him and he would be able to enjoy his sport a lot more. During the operation, however, the surgeon accidentally cut into his heart. While they were trying to repair the damage, he was left too long without oxygen. He went into a coma and died eleven days later.
While she was telling the story she got more distressed but clearly wanted to tell it. She was on the Camino to try to put herself together again. As she said herself, she was in a "thousand pieces."

We all decided to go out for the evening meal together. It was bazaar. Nobody could speak anybody else’s language that well. Francoise could speak English. Carol had some English. Paul, the Belgium man could speak French and Walloon and of course Dick and Judith could speak English and Spanish. Paul and I joke that we were the only two that could speak a totally useless language each, he Walloon and I Irish. Needless to say the joke had to be translated by someone else! It wasn’t only the Irish that presented difficulties. One of the company said " I understand English but not how the Irish speak it!"

Strangely, by the end of the evening language differences were completely forgotten about as the craic (they all understood that) got going. The meal was fantastic, three full courses (no starter and dessert) water and wine for €8.

When we went back to the Albergue, the courtyard was full and the conversation flowing. I past a remark to two lads who were sitting on an old settee. They laughed and said "No English, Espana"
I said, " No Spanish, only English, I’m Irish!"
One of them said "uno English, Yes"
The other said " uno English, No"
I indicated that I had plenty of Spanish words like, Rafael Benitez, Luis Garcia, Xabi Alonso. They laughed. Just at that a woman’s voice from behind me said " Xabi Alonso is Basque, not Spanish. When Basque gets independence, he will play for Basque"
The two lads spoke to her in Spanish and the debate was brief but quite heated.
I smiled sweetly at both parties and got off side. But it did make me think of home!



Saturday 7th

The Road to Astorga

We were up early. It doesn’t get bright until 8am Spanish time. It was dark as we started off. I walked with Francoise and Claude. They had been walking from their home in Brittany and were well worn in. They walked very slowly, only stopping to admire the sunrise in the mist and to take photos of it.

We came to a little vineyard at the side of the path. Fran cut us a bunch each. They were tiny and full of nothing but juice, the type, I’m told that make the very best wine. Why hadn’t somebody bothered?

We climbed a hill, went down the other side and they up another. They never stopped for a rest, just kept moving at their own slow pace but the kilometres just kept dropping off. We got to a little village and sat on a bench outside the church for a rest. Fran went into the church. She came out with Carolha, who was anxious to start off again. She said she had to walk on her own. Dick also appeared. Judith had not been feeling well and had taken the bus to Astorga.
We set off in the direction Carolha had gone but were stopped almost immediately by an old woman who pointed us up a side road. We wondered what was going to become of Carolha but there was no way we could contact her.

The rest of the day was a long hard slog for me. I clearly had too much in my rucksack. The others had said to me that I was carrying too much when they saw me rooting through it for things. I now believed them. The chest strap had now broken just to add to my troubles. It was cutting into my shoulders and felt a ton weight.

Well into the mountains, Carolha caught up with us. She told us she had gone quite far when she realised that she had made a mistake and retraced her steps. She set off like a bat out of hell. We reckoned that she would probably be in Santiago by evening!

Francoise, Claude and I sat down by the path to have our lunch. I had bought cheese in a little shop in Hospital the evening before. It was a hard cheese that looked like cheddar. As I was tucking into it Claude asked me what kind of cheese I was eating. I said I didn’t know but it was very nice. I read out what it said on the packet, "Cabra Superiore" " Ah, cabra is a goat" Thank god I didn’t know that before I started eating!

As we were eating, another couple approached. Francoise and Claude clearly knew them and greeted them warmly.
Francoise turned to me and said "Two more frogs, Sean"
I started looking around for the frogs.
"No, no, these people, they are French, isn’t that would you call French people?"
I felt quite embarrassed at this and tried to explain to her that that term was grossly insulting and was not used except in a racist context and that I had never heard it used in everyday conversation.

The rest of the walk that day was through beautiful countryside but I was exhausted and was glad when I reached the Albergue in Astorga. Dick, who met up with Judith, Francoise and Claude set out for a restaurant as fresh as daisies while I set about separating all the things I didn’t need, about half of what I was carrying, and put them in the box provided for pilgrims who might need them.

I lay down on the bed and rested. The others came back full of the joys of autumn, or Fall as Dick called it. They had had a lovely meal quite close by and were now ready to dose it off.
Before I set out for my meal, I had to write out the words of "Molly Malone" for Francoise. She loved Irish songs and had me singing them along the road that day. She had most of the words on CDs but couldn’t get these ones. Unusually, it was the only song I could remember all through.

Thinking that I would have no bother finding somewhere to eat I set off for a meal. Everywhere was closed. The place shuts down at 3pm and doesn’t open again until about 7pm. It was about 6pm but I eventually found a little café in the square. I sat and watched the world go by as I got through my usual three-course pilgrims’ meal.

When I came to the Albergue, Judith was sitting at a table in the common area with a young man, pouring over a large canvas. She explained that it was a work of art the young guy was doing and that he wanted as many people as possible to add something. She had added a Native American symbol and asked me to add something Irish. I did a St Bridget’s cross. The young man than began to show me his new marshall arts moves. This was completely irrelevant to anything we had been talking about and I began to realise that things were not entirely as they seemed.
I spent the rest of the evening relaxing on my bunk.




Sunday 8th October

A stroll in the sun.

I had a good breakfast in the Albergue in Astorga and headed off on my own to walk the twenty kms. to Rabanal. This was a cakewalk. My bag was so much lighter, I hardly noticed it. I had make emergency repairs to the belts as well and that also helped greatly. The sun was just coming up and there was a strong mist but it was very warm and I was sweating profusely.
The directions showed that when I crossed the bridge over the main road, I should have been following a path that was parallel to a road. At first I was confused. The signs did not seem to agree. I met a German couple and we worked it out even though they spoke no English and I spoke no German. They were very pleasant. I was amazed. Both of them, especially the woman, were quite overweight but they ploughed on.

As I passed the Albergue in Murias de Rechivaldo, I noticed Dick and Judith sitting at a table in the courtyard having coffee with some others. I joined them. Their companions were another couple from New Mexico. The man was originally from Cuba but his family had fled to the USA in 1959 during the revolution. He regaled us with some rather coloured and colourful stories of his life. He said that when they reached Florida, he was put into a primary school and for eighteen months was treated for a speech impediment. It was only after this period they somebody realised he was speaking European Spanish and didn’t have a lisp after all!
I noticed there were walker sticks on sale here so I decided to buy one. I knew I would need one for the mountain walk coming up tomorrow. My first impression was that it was a great help. It helps to distribute your weight from your legs to your shoulders and therefore makes the walking feel less tiring.

I continue walking on my own and am feeling good. The weather is great for walking now and I’m shifting the kms with ease. Then a thought strikes me. This is Sunday. I’ll not be near a town of any size until Tuesday at the earliest and I have only €10 in my pocket and not a chance of an ATM for days. Suddenly I am in the dumps!
I reach El Ganso, and again Dick and Judith are sitting outside the local bar, "La Garraca". I tell them of my plight.
"No bother. Here’s €20. Pay us when you can. We’re all pilgrims together"
Francoise and Claude arrive and we sit and have a bit of a chat before setting off on the rest of the journey to Rabanal.

Rabanal is a rather large village by the standard we had come to expect. It has a long street, a number of bars, at least three Albergues and a Benedictine Monastery. The Benedictines run the local parish and sing Vespers every evening. I got the opportunity to pay Dick and Judith back by buying them dinner at the hotel and I also got some cashback when paying with my card, so my cash-flow problems and debt were solved at one go.

Judith said she would like to go to Vespers that evening. I said I would like to go too. Dick did as he was told, so we all ended up at the Benedictine church. Vespers were sung in Gregorian Chant by two of the monks. Programs were supplied at the entrance to the church in a number of languages but not English so I had to dust off the Latin of my youth.

As the priests were leaving the altar and we the church, we noticed our friend, the artist, moving very quickly up the side aisle, very reverently towards the priests. There was a general moan from the pilgrims around. Poor priests! He appeared to want the priests to bless his work and place it on the high altar.

As we left the church, Judith made some reference to the refreshing change attending Vespers was. I asked her if her usual church was a bit of a bore. "Oh no! It’s Methodist"
I asked her if it was not a bit incongruous for a Methodist to "enjoy" a Catholic service.
"Sean, we’re not from Northern Ireland. We are all on the same journey to heaven. If Vespers helps along the road, then I’ll go" Dick, in fact, is an atheist.



Monday 9th October

The Deserted Village


My sleep was interrupted by the scratching of mice attacking Dick’s food he which had had kept near the bottom of his bed, just at my head. He went through the night completely oblivious of it.

The next morning Dick, Judith and I found the Albergue in the square which had a café. It was full of pilgrims even though the sun hadn’t risen. Dick got into conversation with another American who eventually was introduced to me. It turned out that his name was John, that he visited Northern Ireland frequently and was a paid up member of Portrush golf club. He spends the month of June every year playing there.

We started the walk and for the first hour or so, I walked on my own. Then the American, John, caught with me and decided to slow down and walk with me. He was interesting and talkative and the day went well. The scenery was spectacular as we walked over the mountains of Leon.
We reached the village of Foncebadon, which had been deserted, except for the dogs the departing families had left behind and were then roving in wild pacts when Bert Slader had walked through it in the eighties. Now there is one family that has returned to run a café for the pilgrims. Another was just moving in and was unloading rolls of turf for their lawn when we arrived. We had a cup of coffee but it was uncomfortable and the rain was beginning to come down so we couldn’t sit outside.

We headed on and soon came to Cruz de Ferro. I placed the stone, which I had carried all the way from Whiteabbey, below the cross. Dick, whom we met there, took a picture of me on my phone so that I could send it home.

It was then on to Manjarin another wrecked and deserted village, except for Tomas who thinks he is a Knights Templar, who dresses in the full regalia and has devoted his life to looking after pilgrims in this god forsaken place. So dedicated is he that I am told he left his wife and children to do it.

El Acebo is a lovely little village that seems to be fully intact with all the houses occupied. We had lunch in the café at the end of the village. Lots of pilgrims had arrived at about the same time and we all sat around eating our sandwiches and drinking water. There were lots of wild cats here that seemed to exist on the titbits thrown at them by the pilgrims. One mummy cat had a litter of kittens that were very playful and contested every scrap that was thrown. I noticed one fully-grown cat that was very timid. It held back and would run away even from the kittens when they would dive at their prey. I started to make sure that he would get some of what I would throw down when all the others were occupied. He would grab it, run with it in his mouth and climb over a nearby wall to eat it.

John and I were last to set off on the road again. We had intended to reach Ponferrada but decided to call it a day when we reached Riego de Ambros where we spent the night.



Tuesday 10th October 2006

Forced Marches

We were up at 6.45am. and out almost immediately. We had packed sacks the night before and used the blanket provided by the albergue. It was still dark. The village is in the middle of the hills and the Camino track heads down what appears to be a dry riverbed with huge flat boulders underfoot. In fact that was the problem. It was a not-so-dry riverbed and very slippery. It was also through a wood which made it very dark. When we got to the bottom of the hill we ended up in a swamp. My tiny little torch came into its own. I don’t know what we would have done without it. We eventually cleared the wood and were on top of the hills watching the light gradually rising behind the hills. The hilltops were silhouetted against the light and we were surrounded with dark, almost black to various shades of blue to silver. John mentioned that the scenery was beautiful. I agreed that it probably was. It was a pity we couldn’t see it!
We had coffee and a croissant in a lovely bar in Molinaseca and pushed on to Ponferrada. Here we saw the Templars' Castle and then headed for Cacabelos. It was raining by the time we got there. The first real rain we had seen so far. This was possibly the best Albergue on the Camino so far. It was built motel style with great shower facilities but almost impossible to get your towel dried as the outside line, though covered, meant that in high humidity like tonight you were on a loser. Drying your clothes becomes a major issue on the Camino. It rained all night and I was not looking forward to the next day. It looked like an uncomfortable day’s walking.


Wednesday 11th October 2007

The three Musketeers


It rained heavily all night and was still raining when we woke up, so everyone took a lie in until about 7.45am. It didn’t look promising. It looked like this would be the first day of battling with heavy rain. Up to this we had been very lucky. Mostly if it rained at all it had happened during the night.

By the time we had packed, the rain had eased. I set out alone with my poncho on. I hadn’t gone very far when the rain stopped completely. I stopped in the shelter at a bus stop and reorganised myself. I walked on and had soon left the town behind. The Camino took a right turn from the main road onto a country lane. There was a bit of a hill. I could hear the now familiar sound of the three lads I had met in the albergue the night before. You always heard them before you saw them. Their names were Sean, Marco and Alejandro. The latter two are Italian, believe it or not, and Sean is Australian. They are hilarious, always cracking jokes, and if the jokes are not funny, they laugh anyway. They are never rude, crude or mean.
They catch up with me and we walk all day together. We walk through Villa Franca, stopping only to eat at a bench.

They are great company and great with the old people in the villages we pass through. They have a word for all of them and share their chocolate with them. The old people respond in kind. There is nothing forced about it. They don’t set out to be "kind" or to make an impression. That’s just the way they are. In fact I’m quite sure they have decided that I need to be looked after because they seem to be taking it in turn to fall back and walk with me. I tell Marco to catch up with his friends and I will go at my own speed but he says to me "No, no, Sean, I like to walk with you. I always walk slowly and catch up with the other two when they stop to pish!"

As we go the lads pick up what is going to form the nucleus of our dinner tonight. Sweet chestnuts, lettuce, apples, grapes and anything else that grew by the side of the road. (Actually, some of it was from peoples’ plots but it seemed to be considered fair game if it was close to the path and had no barrier.

We ended up in Trabadelo. The Italians lads went out to the shops and bought what they thought we would need for dinner and then proceeded to make it. Brilliant! A concoction of vegetables. Eggs and pasta with the salad they had gathered during the day finished off with the cooked sweet chestnuts, the first time in my life I had ever eaten them.

Thursday 12th October 2006

The Long Haul to O Cebreiro

We started at our leisure and walked very slowly through lots of little villages. We met Rafaela from Germany along the way. We stopped at a little home bakery near Ruitelan and had a piece of pie and a drink of water. The lads just trekked on allowing themselves to be distracted at every opportunity. No question of conserving energy or focusing on the road ahead. We got to a little village with a Roman bridge. The lads were unimpressed with the bridge to the point of ignoring it. I suppose when your from Italy you see a lot of them. However, Alex. Couldn’t avoid the temptation to paddle in the river. The water in parts came up to his waist and it was freezing. He was determined to reach the bridge so that the others could pull him out. With very great effort, they did, and on we went!

It was here that the real ascent started. Steep, rocky, Croagh Patrick times ten. Very soon the lads had pushed ahead and Rafaela and I struggled. We were exhausted but we just kept walking, resting, walking resting.

At a little village some way before O Cebreiro, we stopped to fill our water bottles at a fountain and Rafaela suggested we sit for a while because we had a feeling that the worst was still to come. So, I lifted my sack and we moved to a grassy verge a little bit away. When we got up to go, I realised I had not got my stick, so I searched by the fountain but it was nowhere to be seen.
A very old woman with two young children were walking their cows. The kids giggled and hid their faces when I spoke to them.

After another two brutal kms climb, we reached O Cebreiro. It was like a Brigadoon experience. After walking for hours through forests, up hillsides and through dilapidated and almost abandoned villages, we got to the end of the path, took one more step and found ourselves on a modern road with the sound of Celtic music wafting through the air. For a moment I thought I was back in Ireland!

The atmosphere changed. This was a holiday village ,vibrant, touristy and obviously doing the business. It was a holiday weekend in this part of Galicia.

We went into the bar. It was full of all the pilgrims we knew, mostly drinking beer. I shouted over to Sean that I had lost my stick. Immediately a man from outside the door stuck his head in and said "I found it!" He was one of the picnic pilgrims from Belgium. These were a group of pilgrims that we bumped into a lot. They stayed in luxury hotels every night and a luxury coach brought them to the starting point each day. Needless to say, they didn’t carry heavy rucksacks. The bus did that for them. Though I wouldn’t have swapped places with them, there were times when I felt just a little pang of jealousy.

I sat with my newfound friend and his wife and had a beer but very soon they had to go. Their coach had arrived.

I found the Albergue, did my washing and hung it out. The albergue was at the highest point of this village which seemed itself to be at the highest point in the world. It was a beautiful sunny evening and as warm as it was ever likely to be at this altitude, so I sat under the washing line and sent my text messages and wrote up this journal for today.

I will go for a pilgrim meal tonight, hopefully by myself and the to bed. I have decided to get the bus to Sarria tomorrow because if I don’t, I will not make Santiago by Thursday. Sarria is just over 100 kms from Santiago so I will not be able to get a bus if I leave it much longer or I will not be able to claim my Compostella

(Written in the sunshine with the slightest of chill, looking down on the mountains that separate Leon from Gallicia).

Friday 13th October 2006

Back to school.

I was up at 6a.m. to get the bus to Sarria. It was to leave at 7a.m. from outside the Bar where I had my meal last night. So at 6.40 a.m. I was standing at the bus stop. It was absolutely freezing. There was a shrill winter wind that cut to the bone. A few minutes later a Spanish couple arrived for the same bus. We stood around and waited in the pitch dark. Seven o’clock came and went but no bus arrived. By this time we were hopping around to keep ourselves warm. At 7.20 a.m. it arrived, the school bus. The driver would not take money from us. We went from farm to farm to collect the kids. Only one or two were ready, so we had the bus mainly to ourselves.

When we got to Triascastela we changed to a coach. This is where we paid for the whole journey. There were a lot of kids waiting for the bus here. They seemed to be going to school in Sarria.
We got to Sarria just before 9a.m. I got my passport stamped in the Albergue and had breakfast in a nearby café. I had anticipated staying in Sarria for the rest of the day but as it was so early, I decided to head to Portmarin.

It was in the café in Sarria that I met Jonathan. He is walking with his brother. They are Welsh and are travelling on Irish passports. They started from Cebreiro so haven’t been going long. I keep bumping in to them throughout they day and we get quite friendly. We pass through a lot of villages but the closer I get to Santiago the more focused I seem to be becoming and one village looks much the same as the next.

As I walk down the main street of Portmarin, I meet Alfredo, whom I haven’t seen since my first night in Leon. He tells me he had decided to go to the private hostel but that Edu was in the municipal one. I wish I had gone private. The municipal one is clean and comfortable but very public. The rooms are crowded and the beds pushed tightly together. I suppose you could say it is brilliant value for a voluntary contribution of €3.

I mark out the rest of my trip, so that I can be sure of getting to Santiago on Thursday, Bilbao on Friday and home on Saturday. I then go to try my telephone card to phone Anne. Having manoeuvred my way through all the instructions given by the disembodied voice in Spanish, she is not in! Got to speak to Ruth though.

I’m getting to know the ropes of the Camino now. How to buy food and what to do to survive on the walk etc. It helps a lot but it’s a pity its so near to the end of the walk.

Saturday 14th October 2006

The Longest Day.

I decide to push on for Palas de Rei. I’m on my own this morning but there are plenty of other pilgrims to pass the time of day to. Eventually, as I head out into the country, I meet Jonathan and his brother Martin again. We decide to move on together. It’s a good 28Kms to Palas de Rei so we plod on. The craic is good and we reach our destination about 4pm.

We get showered and go a few doors down from the albergue to a bar to have dinner.
We are joined by an East German woman called Aulet. She is a teacher and has many of the problems that teachers have in Ireland. We sit outside the bar in the sun for dinner. It is so strong that I have to turn my back to it. During dinner the lads’ mum rings. I am handed the phone to keep her talking while Martin finishes his dinner. Not easy with someone you have never even spoken to before!


Sunday 15th October

Blisters!

We head for Rabidiso but I am soon suffering. I had felt a blister coming on the ball of my right foot a few days ago and put a compeed plaster on it. Some people had said that it made things worse but I had decided to go by the advice I had read on the Internet before setting out i.e. act as soon as possible before things get even more difficult. As well as being tired from the constant walking, the blister is now playing up big time!

I stop and take the compeed off. The ball of my foot is in raw flesh. Jonathan helps me to dress it again and I keep going. A little while later I stop at a picnic area to put on more Vaseline as I can feel the friction on the same foot.

Along comes Kevin. I have met him a few times before. He is from Oldham in Lancashire and has just left a religious community in France. He hasn’t a penny between himself and starvation and has started making one decade rosary beads to sell them to other pilgrims to make a few bob. He stays only in voluntary contribution albergues. I ask him to make me a pair of beads for my sister Eileen and a couple of bracelets for Naomh and Cara.

We continue to walk and my foot eases a little. He tells me his story. He has stayed in communes in Italy and latterly in France. He is now trying to make up his mind whether to go for the priesthood or to just find a girl and get married. I tell him about my young days in the Christian Brothers and hear myself saying things that I haven’t even thought about since those days.
We reach Melide and everyone is sitting outside a bar talking. Most have decided the Rabidiso is too far and have decided to stay here. I spend the afternoon and early evening in my bunk. Jonathan and Martin go to Mass. We have a thirty km hike tomorrow, not just to get back on schedule but because there are no albergues along the way. I hope my foot doesn’t object.



Monday 16th October 2007

How to get your blisters treated!

The blister does not seem so bad today but I am tired. There is no way I am walking 30kms. Today or even trying to keep up with Jonathan and Martin.

We have yesterday’s sandwich for breakfast and start off. I go very slowly and tell them to push on. It’s raining so I wear my poncho. We’ve been lucky with the weather so far. There has not been that much need for the wet gear. We’re in Gallicia now so that will change, by all accounts. Maybe this is the beginning of it.

I keep catching up with the two lads as they get distracted by the view, gathering grapes, chestnuts and blackberries. I benefit from their rummaging.

I have decided that Arzua will do. It’s about 10 kms. But most people seem to feel like me. Maybe people are getting tired now that the end is in sight.

I meet the two lads again in a café having bacon, eggs and chips. It looks great. I have some too. We reach the albergue among the first. The lads get their passports stamped and move on. Will I see them again? Jonathan gives me the name of the hostel they are staying in Santiago and his telephone number and makes me promise to ring him when I get to Santiago.

I am shown, very purposefully, to the "gents mayor" dormitory. I wonder what that means?

I am the first and get the best bed in the corner. I decide to sleep. It’s 2pm and I sleep soundly except for a few interruptions from texts from Anne in the early part.

I awake at 4.15pm and the dormitory is full. They are all sleeping. I think I might be beginning to understand what "Gents Mayor" means.

I take a shower. My foot is aching but not that bad. I take the compeed off. There is about four square inches of loose flesh hanging off. Surely that would be better off! I cut it off with my scissors and cover the raw flesh with savlon. The compost patch I have isn’t big enough to cover it, so I decide to find a Farmacia.

I hobble along to the town centre and eventually find a farmacia. Clearly there is no such thing as a compeed patch big enough but as I am trying to make myself understood, a very distinguished looking lady comes in. She speaks perfect English. By luck the pharmacy also houses a chiropody practice. I end up getting a tube of Bentodine, which looks like a form of iodine gel and a packet of dressings. The chiropractor dresses the wound and gives the instructions to the lady who translates to me. I am to apply the bentodine every morning and dress it. In the evening I am to take it all off and leave it to the air.

I hobble back the albergue in the rain. I’m feeling better already. I do my washing. There is no way I would have felt like doing the washing before my visit to the pharmacy.

I am writing this, listening to the rain battering off the windows. It’s coming down in torrents. It’s 7.15pm.The relief from getting something done about my foot is amazing.



Tuesday 17th October 2006

Lost, again!

The rain has stopped. My foot seems greatly improved. I get dressed, find a café and have breakfast. I can’t find the yellow signs, so I follow the road signs to Santiago. I see a pilgrim in front of me so I feel that I must be on the right road.

I keep going for about two kms. At the edge of town, I find a small arrow pointing into a lane. The other pilgrim is closer to me now but appears to have missed it. I whistle at him and he comes over. He is the French man who was at the table beside me with his wife last night. His wife travels by car. He now explains that he follows the road because of this. This arrow is not a camino arrow and I had better retrace my steps to the town and find the proper camino. So back I go.

When I get back to the café where I had breakfast, I meet two English men who have a detailed map. They are convinced they are on the right road and so it turns out. I realise once again that the easiest and most enjoyable way is to walk on your own, at your own speed and stopping where you like.

After a while an Australian woman catches up with me. She has noticed me limping and gives me some lamb’s wool to cushion my foot. We reach a café and stop for coffee. There are lots of pilgrims here, none of whom I have met before. Many more are passing without stopping. She introduces me to a Cork girl, who is very proud of the fact that she cannot be identified from her accent.

I walk on and have a bocadillo at another café. The Belgians come in. The man who found my stick is there. I explain that I have lost it again and haven’t really missed it. I walk on and eventually find Pedrouso. It’s sometimes called Arca in the guides but apparently the locals like to call it Pedrousa. The signs are all Pedrousa which makes it a little confusing. Most of the others have decided to walk on to Lavdillo. I don’t know why because there is very little left to walk tomorrow anyway.

Just as I have showered and am trying to organise my things, who walks in but Carolha. I didn’t think I would see her again. She is still in pieces. I wish her well.

I go out to see if there is a café bar for something to eat. I meet Jurgan, the German, as I had heard Martin referring to him. He’s a nice young guy but he smokes too much. He’s going for a cup of coffee as a nice Austrian couple offered him share of their soup, so he doesn’t feel that he needs anything else. We end up in a"Supermac" type of place. I have another greasy meal, two fried eggs, processed chicken, bacon and chips. The good thing about eating late is that you don’t need a breakfast in the morning.



Wednesday October 18th 2006

The last day's walk.

I’m passing the place where I ate last night and decide to have a coffee as it’s still dark (8.30am).

Jurgan is having a croissant. Carolha is sitting on her own. I sit with Jurgan and have my coffee. He was reconnoitring last night and knows the way out of the village. I walk with him for a while but I’m not going to make the same mistake again. I want to walk on my own, at my own speed and rest when I want to. I bought two bananas, a tomato and a packet of choc chips last night to sustain me on my way as I don’t think there are any café bars on the way to Lavacolla. I decide that the distance is so short, 18 kms, that I will go the full way to Santiago today.

Besides Jurgan, whom I keep catching up with when he stops for a smoke, I don’t meet anyone else that I know, so there’s a lot of "Bon Camino's" "Ola’s" and smiles but not much else.
I’m cutting a dash today. The relief of not having a sore foot is amazing. My whole spirit has raised. It had rained all night but the morning was fine and I was at the end of the airstrip at Lavacolla when the first shower struck. It was heavy and a few of us huddled in a shelter at a bus stop to put on our rain gear.

I moved on, only to meet Jurgan at the next bus stop, standing in from the rain and having a smoke.
"Not much point for a wide-brimmed hat this weather, Jurgan."
"I do not wear the hat to protect me from the sun. I wear it to keep the rain from my cigarette!"
I’m not sure if he saw the humour.

I pass through Lavacolla, where in past times pilgrims washed before moving on to Santiago. It is the airport for Santiago today. As the guide says "different times, different needs". I soon find myself in Monte Del Gozo. I follow the signs for the albergue. I want the "sello" and something to eat.

This is where from day one I had planned to stay on the last night of the camino, so that I could make my triumphant entrance to the Cathedral for the Pilgrims’ Mass and to get my Compostella the following day. There is no way I am stopping now. I’ll stay in the hotel that Jonathan told me about tonight and get Mass tomorrow.

The albergue in Monte Del Gozo is of a different order to anything I have seen before. It can hold up to 800 but only 450 are advertised. It reminds me of the POW camps you see in some films, though obviously very modern and clean. There is a main road through the middle with "Blocks" of dormitories on either side. Coming from the camino, you enter by the back gate. I meet a hospitalero at the first block I come to. He tells me that I will get the sello in the café about 100 meters down the road.

It is in a square along with another café, restaurant and souvenir shop. The café is as good as you will get anywhere. I feel like a long rest and order tea and a bocadillo grande, bacon con queso. I don’t know what queso means but I’m sure it will be OK. (It’s cheese) At the stage there is only one wee man in the café. I have seen him in many albergues. He’s on his bike. He doesn’t speak much to anybody and especially not to me as he doesn’t speak English.

It is not long until the overweight German couple arrives. She is particularly over heavy. They have walked the whole camino for the past two months and must be as fit as fiddles but she has hips the size of barrage balloons. She doesn’t speak English but her husband has a little. They are really very nice. I don’t know why they’ve not finished by now. They were pushing on to Ruitelan on a late afternoon when we were happy to finish at Trabadelo. They offer me some choc chips. I politely refuse trying to explain that I have had as many of them as I could face and had just thrown some in the bid.

Then in come the Belgians again. The man who found my stick and his wife sit at my table and talk to me. They have to walk to the Cathedral and then 3kms.back to their hotel because the coach will not deliver them. How sad!

His wife tells me that they are thinking of doing the camino again next year, the way I did it. So I regale her with some of the stories from the albergues, especially about bed bugs, mixed showers with no curtains, the one or two that are dirty and cold and of course, about the tummy bugs. Her resolve visibly weakens.

I text Anne and tell her that I am only 4kms. and 900 ms. from the Cathedral in Santiago. She texts me back and asks how many miles is that.

I set off again. Monte Del Gozo is really just a suburb of Santiago and it’s not long until I’m following the signs through the city streets. The heavens open but I keep walking. The poncho is doing an excellent job. It seems that God or the camino has thrown everything at us and this is just the final shot.

Eventually I get to the Cathedral. It’s not like I imagined. No triumph. The opposite, in fact. I feel down. Deflated. It might be the rain getting to me. I try to take a photo of the Cathedral on my mobile to send to Anne. A group of cyclists, who have also just arrived, ask me to take a photo of them with the Cathedral as background. They are trying to be in the best of spirits but I get the feeling that individually, they are all feeling pretty much like myself.

I go in the main door of the Cathedral. It’s full of pilgrims and tourists wandering around looking at all it has to offer, or maybe just staying in out of the rain. I don’t feel like one of them, so I just sit in a seat near the back and think. What do I do now? So I say to God, "If you’re listening, tell me what to do. I don’t have anywhere to stay and I’m miles from home. What would you do? I can stay in the local albergue, go back to Monte Del Goo or stay in the hotel the Jonathan gave me the hand out for. Either way it means going out in the rain and getting soaked again."
I put my hand in my pocket and out comes the flier for the hotel. The hotel it is then. But how will I find it.

I do the tourist bit around the Cathedral. I even find the tomb of St. James behind the high altar but my heart is not in it. I go out the side door where I think Jonathan said the hotel was near.
It’s still bucketing so I stand in the porch and put on my poncho again.

As I am going down the steps, two men in business suits are coming up. I ask them if they can speak English. One does so I show him my grubby flier and ask him if he knows where this hotel is. He doesn’t but he takes out his mobile and rings the number, obviously to ask directions. There are a lot of "si’s" and "Buons" and other words that I don’t understand. He then finishes the conversation and turns and speaks to the other man in Spanish. He then turns to me and says, "My friend will take you"

I’m dumfounded! He walks ahead of me. He has an umbrella. We walk along narrow medieval streets. He stops and asks directions every now and then. Eventually we get there. Outside the main door he stops, shakes my hand and says "buonos dias".
Once again, I am very frustrated at not being able to express my gratitude to him adequately.

I half expect to be told the hotel is full but God isn’t that bad. He may like a joke but he knows when enough is enough. There is a single room. €19+ tax, €27. I’m too tired to argue but I had been assured that it was only €19.

Initially, I just lie on the bed and soak up the privacy. I haven’t had that for the past three weeks. Then I attack the bathroom. A shower with a proper towel! A shave in hot water with proper taps that turn on and off when I want them to. What luxury!

Jonathan returns my call. I politely refuse his invitation to go to the pub to watch Chelsea and ask him to tell Kevin that I will see him at Mass about the bracelets I had ordered.
There is no restaurant in the hotel so I am now going out to find one. Not too far, I hope.

Thursday October 20th 2006

Once again, where does it rain?

I can relax this morning. Don’t have to out by 8am. So I rise when I’m ready and shower. I then decide to head towards the Cathedral and find out where the Dean's office is to get my Compostella.

It’s still raining so I wear my trusty poncho but for the first time in three weeks I don’t have a rucksack on my back. I feel liberated! As I approach the Cathedral, today’s pilgrims are beginning their approach. I meet the two Englishmen that gave me directions in Arzua and have a quick chat. They are heading home today. I don’t recognise anybody else though.

As I walk by the side of the Cathedral, I see a pilgrim huddled by the side door studying his/her map. I can’t see if it is a man or woman. I decide to ask if he/she knows where the Dean’s office is. It’s Carolha. She just arrived and is searching for it herself. I’m sure it is at the other side of the Cathedral. So, we decide to go in that door and cross the nave and out the other side door. As we pass the altar, Carolha decides she wants the see the Burial place of St. James behind the high Altar. So I leave her and move on.

I find the Dean’s office right beside the far side door of the Cathedral. I climb the stairs. There is a queue and I recognise some of the people who are on their way out. Among them is Kevin. I get a quick chat with him. He hasn’t been able to get the material he needs to finish the bracelets for the girls, so I will have to move on to plan B. I’m disappointed because I felt they would have been quite unique.

As I am standing in the queue, I notice the Belgians in front of me. They’re very friendly. Up the stairs comes Carolha. We chat as we wait. She asks me if I am going on to Finnesterra. I tell her that I am quite happy t be going home. Tomorrow it’s the bus to Bilbao and then on to Dublin and Belfast on Saturday. She is going on to Finnesterra to burn a lock of her hair and throw it over the "end of the world".

Eventually our turn comes and we each go to one of the desks to get our Compestella. I am given a form to fill in. It asks all the usual things and if you did the pilgrimage for spiritual reasons. The girl points out that you do not have to be a Catholic to claim spiritual reasons, so I decide that I did, in the loosest possible sense of the phrase.

When I leave the room I meet Carolha again. She asks me to let her see my Compostella. She shows me that hers is different. She had said that she had no religion, so it must have taken that she could not then have being doing the Camino for spiritual reasons, so she got a "Certificate of Pilgrimage". I don’t think anybody else that I met on the pilgrimage could possibly have done it for more genuinely spiritual reasons. I suggested the she go back in and explain the mistake. I said that I would go with her but though she was obviously disappointed, she decided not to bother. We went out the door. She turned right and I turned left. I hope she gets the spiritual strength she was hoping for.

I went into the shop next door where the guide said that you could get the Compostella laminated and a tube to carry it in. It turned out to be a typical tourist shop with lots of nick nacks, so it was here that I got most of my souvenirs.

By now it was 11.15am so I decide to get myself a ringside seat for the Mass. The Cathedral is filling up already but I get a seat on the left arm of the cruciform very close to the altar. As I am just settling down, poncho off, goody bag at my feet, I hear, "Hi Sean, glad you made it." It was Jonathan. His mother is with him and Martin is somewhere in the Cathedral. We exchange news. Jonathan’s mother has been here all week waiting for them to arrive. She has been to Mass every morning and is glad to see that they are preparing the big thurible for use during Mass. They don’t do that every day and it is a spectacular sight to behold.

At precisely 12 noon, Mass starts. There is a nun at a microphone on the altar leading us in the singing. About twenty or thirty priests form a procession from the main door to the altar. The main celebrant, the dean brings up the rear. The main body of priests take their places in the choir seats behind the high altar. Six or seven stay at the altar to concelebrate Mass.
During the Mass all our names are called out and the country we are from.

I decide to go to communion. As I approach the altar, I notice three oriental looking priests walking in the procession of concelebrant priests from the choir to the centre of the altar to receive communion. Just as the get a few feet from the centre of the altar, the first one turns around to face the two behind him, and whips out a camera from his breast pocket. The two behind draw together and pose. In two seconds, the souvenir photograph is taken, original positions resumed and the solemn procession continued. The writers of "Father Ted" would have rejected this scene as being too surreal!

After communion, the thurible is raised high by five men and swung from one side of the cathedral to the other. It comes to within an inch or two from the roof. It also whizzes past our ears, where we are standing. I have a strong urge to get out of the way as it is hurtling towards me but Jonathan who beside me is solely intent on getting a picture of it irrespective of the danger. He then whispers to me that it did fly off and crashed through the side door and knocked down part of the side wall. But it’s all right now, that was in the Middle Ages. The ropes are stronger now.

After Mass, we head our separate ways. I get brunch at a little supermarket café near the Cathedral and wander round the shops. It’s still bucketing.

Early evening, I head to the little café bar near the hostel for a meal. It’s a dump but I don’t feel like searching for somewhere else in the rain. I’m in with the locals, which is good, watching the comings and goings. Half way during my meal, guess what? In come the Belgians. They tell me they are heading down do Portugal the following day, in their luxury bus of course. However, they don't join me as their is a far more luxurious retaurant upstairs!

I need to get my bus ticket to Bilbao for tomorrow. I head to where I think the bus station must be but can’t find it. I’m completely lost. Then a stroke of luck. Jurgan, the German, is walking along the other side of the street. I tell him of my plight. "Don’t worry. Follow us we are going there and my friend knows the way. We end up retracing our way back past my hotel and eventually find the bus station. And the great thing is that it is only ten minutes from the hotel. So I will make Bilbao tomorrow.