8:30 A.M. eating little commercially prepared wrapped cakes and

cafe solo in the hostel bar. A native with a surprisingly deep

voice that sounds like it is coming from a gravel pit is drinking

whiskey and coffee. Meanwhile the French couple leave with a

friend they hooked up with who is wearing a comical beanie cap

with an umbrella sticking up from the center to shade him from the sun.

Leaving Triacastela.

El camino follows the road leaving Triacastela and criss-crosses

it, more or less, all the way to Samos. The trail is very

pleasant, and as it descends into Samos, there is a marvelous view

of the ancient Benedictine monastery which was originally founded

in the 6th century. This is the very same monastery that Roman,

the Swiss guard, was so upset by, having refused him shelter in

his time of need. I arrived in time to hear the bell ringing that

announced the noon mass, and outstanding bell ringing it was. The

bells rang for what seemed like half an hour with such great

intensity and variation, it was like a concert in itself. Before

the mass I visited the very serious gift shop, not large, but well

organized with large variety of merchandise. The monk in charge is

very impressed with my staff and asks to see it. After I hand it

to him he handles it, inspecting it closely. I can see the

businessman wheels turning in his head.

Stone cross at Samos.

"How much did you pay for it," he asks.

"60 francs," I tell him.

"But what is the exchange rate?"

"I'm sorry, but I have no idea."

He turns it over a few more times admiring the engraving where it

says, St. Jean Pied-de-Port and hands it back to me approvingly.

Monastery at Samos. Note the scallop iron work fence.

I left the gift shop and hurried up to the church to attend the

mass which was about to begin. The church is immediately

impressive with the organ bellowing loudly shaking the building.

Nine priests dressed in green and white robes, the priest in the

center wearing a red sash, stand behind a long table. The event is

as impressive as any well practiced theater with alchemic hand

movements. At times the center priest holds up both hands as in

the experience of an epiphany, while the four priests on each side

hold sometimes one, and sometimes both their hands out as in a

blessing. Throughout the ceremony a life-size statue of Fruela I

stands with raised sword ready to take your head, while Alfonso II

stands on a decapitated head opposite. A very moving experience

and a welcome rest from the endless walking. After the mass, the

same monk I spoke with earlier about my staff tells me to hurry

down for a tour of the cloisters. I rush downstairs just as the

tour is starting eager to join but another monk stops me and tells

me I need to buy a ticket. At this extension of their marketing

prowess, I leave and head up to the town stopping in a bar for a

beer before continuing on to Saria, 12 km further. As I reflect on

the experience, it occurs to me that Samos is very much like a

Disney movie set carefully orchestrated by the Benedictines. It

was probably the unnatural cleanliness of the town, almost

sterile, coupled with what seemed like an out of place German inn

standing next to the monastery that gave me that impression.

Disney at Samos.

Outside of town, I am halfway up a dirt track after (gratefully)

turning off the paved road, when a local resident on the road

below begins yelling to me that I am going the wrong way. I am

really rather dubious, but what do I know? Here's a man who looked

to be about 100 years old and had probably lived here all his life

insisting that I am going the wrong way. Reluctantly, I turn

around and retrace my steps to the road below where I turned off.

I carefully check the sign which clearly indicates that I had

taken the correct road. Nevertheless, I defer to the wisdom of the

ancient resident and proceed along the literally stinking road. As

in many instances along the way, el camino follows a very similar

route to the paved road, and sometimes is a dirt track adjacent to

it, and other times joins the road. With this knowledge I

proceeded, confident that either way I would reach my destination,

Sarria, which I did at 5:30 P.M.

Stairs entering Sarria.

After laboring up a long staircase leading to the upper part of

town, I found the refugio without any trouble. It turned out to be

full, however, and I was directed further up the Calle Mayor to a

hostel half way up the hill. This was a fine place to stay, having

a bar below, and a small market directly across the street. The

room I was given was on the second floor overlooking the street

with double doors opening to tiny balcony. The host, who was also

the bartender, spent at least 15 minutes meticulously explaining

how to operate the propane hot water system. He wanted to make

very certain that I understood exactly how to turn it off. The

room was directly next to the bath with a shower and cost 1000

pts. Couldn't be more reasonable. After unpacking a few things and

a shower, I went across the street to buy food and a bar of soap

to wash my clothes. I had to cut a small piece off the bar of soap

since it was far too big to carry whole. As I was hanging my socks

on the balcony railing to dry, I looked down and there was the

Norwegian couple walking down the street. I hailed them and we

spoke for a few minutes. They too, were staying in a hostel down

the road, but it was great to see them again. It is interesting

that for all the times we have met, always at a stopping point, we

have never run into each other on the camino itself, and so have

never actually walked together. Still, I feel like we are friends

since we have spoken so often and both have children involved with

computers. They are always positive and uplifting and I enjoy

talking with them. I decided to leave at sunrise so I went down to

the bar to pay my bill in advance. There were only a few customers

and the bartender was very cordial. After that it was back to my

room to read my guide for a while before sleeping.

Hostel at Sarria.