As planned, the next morning I was on my way at sunrise, heading

up to the top of Calle Mayor and past the modern buildings and

residential neighborhood. Over the river and across the tracks and

continuing on through the beautiful Galician countryside. It felt

good to be in Galicia where my wife and I had visited three years

earlier, staying with friends in Santiago de Compostela. It was

then that I first learned about the pilgrimage, though it was only

a dim recognition at first. It took the intervening years for the

idea of actually making the pilgrimage myself to mature into a

reality. But because I had been here before it felt like returning home,

in addition to Galicia being the final destination of the pilgrimage.

Stone inn.

At about 9:30 A.M. I stopped at a picturesque little inn for

coffee and cold toast served by the grumpiest people I had

encountered so far. I met with a young couple, guests at the inn,

who were just on their way out and we talked for a while. They

were on vacation from professional jobs and were making only part

of the pilgrimage like so many who have time constraints. This,

incidentally, was the first really bad coffee I had been served in

all of Spain. I was shocked, having taken for granted the

excellent cafe solo available at any local bar, fresh brewed by

the cup. This weak light brown liquid was neither fresh nor brewed

by the cup, but created somehow in a pot many hours before. I was

very disappointed since I had left Sarria before anything was open

and was looking forward to cafe con leche. I left the grumpy

innkeepers and continued on my way, amazed by the unique antiquity

of the stone buildings I past. This was farm country to be sure,

and the pungent odor of cow manure permeated the air emphasizing

that fact. It was everywhere, not just as I past a barn or

farmhouse, but it was so strong and constant that it seemed like

the whole area was inside a cow barn. After a few more hours I was

actually feeling nauseous from the strong odor. At about 12:30 I

stopped at a farm that had transformed one of its buildings into a

restaurant and tried again for a decent cafe con leche, and to my

amazement, was served the same pathetic excuse for coffee I had at

the inn. I gave up on the idea of having coffee that morning, not

that I had any choice.

Pleasant path in Galicia.

This part of el camino often consists of a cart track bordered by

stone walls on both sides and it was along one of these tracks

that I first encountered the equestrian pilgrims. It was quite a

surprise really, and exciting. From out of nowhere a group of

riders appeared led by a man with a leather vest who was leading

another horse. The group moved fast and before I knew it I was

pinned against the stone wall worried that I might be trampled.

They passed me, horses slipping and sliding on the track with deep

ruts cut by carts, and loose rocks, but moving steadily at a brisk

walk and were out of sight as quickly as they appeared. There were

about ten riders of various ages, from teenagers to middle aged

adults. We exchanged brief greetings as they passed, and they

seemed seriously intent upon the business at hand. On that

particular stretch of road, it looked like a chore to stay in the

saddle with the horses moving quickly on the precarious track.

Later I learned that the group had traveled all the way from the

Basque country on horseback. I had also noticed that many of the

larger refugios had stables, but this was the first time I

actually saw the horses. I decided that I was much happier moving

at a snails pace on foot than bouncing around on the back of a horse.

Slate, a regional specialty.

Eventually I came to Portomarin and the great modern bridge

leading to the new city. The old Portomarin was submerged when the

river Mino was transformed into a reservoir in 1956, and only the

highest parts of the ancient architecture protrude from the

water's surface. After crossing the bridge, I encountered a

pilgrim who informed me that the refugio was full, as was the

hostel. Not exactly great news since I had already walked more

than 20 km, but I didn't like the look of the new city perched

high on a hill overlooking the river anyway, and was not really

too disappointed about having to continue. A few steps from the

bridge I stopped at a gasoline station for a short rest and

refreshment. Here I bought a can of Coke from a woman who was

dressed for a photographic fashion shoot with fastidiously applied

makeup to match her outfit. I asked her for water to fill my

bottle and was refused. I was shocked, and I must admit, had very

un-pilgrim like feelings for her. She dismissed me telling me that

she didn't have any water but that there was a public fountain a

few kilometers up the road. Then she returned to her impeccably

manicured little house which was right next door to the gas

station. The house with no water. No water was actually quite a

serious matter since when I walk carrying a pack I need constant

water to keep from becoming dehydrated and I was just about out of

the precious liquid. But, having little choice, I continued. At

this point el camino crosses the river Torres via a footbridge and

proceeds around the side of Monte San Antonio. However, after

carefully studying my map, I decided to skip the scenic route and

proceed directly along the road I was on towards Ventas de Naron,

another 13 km further. I made this decision in the interest of

preserving my remaining strength since I reasoned that the road,

though boring, would be the shortest and least arduous route.

Ancient farm track and rockpile.

So off I went, trudging along the road towards Ventas de Naron

which was uphill every step of the way. About halfway there, I

reached a rest area with a fountain that ran with terrible tasting

undrinkable water. At this point I met Juan from Madrid at the

fountain and we walked together from there to Ventas de Naron. A

few steps past the fountain we came to a business or government

installation of some sort, all fenced in and very secure. Happily,

they had a soft drink machine with cold drinks so we stopped and

rested for awhile enjoying our drinks. A kilometer or so further

we came to a rather new looking refugio which seemed very

uninviting for some reason. Here it was, directly on the road,

basically in the middle of nowhere. It seemed strange. I went in

to use the washroom and fill my water bottle and found one lone

pilgrim staying at refugio. He seemed just about as strange as the

refugio so Juan and I kept on walking. Actually, the place was so

weird that we never even entertained the thought of staying there.

As I walked the last 10 km I thought of an open heart. One that

weighed in lightly with no worries. This gave me some much needed

strength to continue. As I walked I was overcome with the desire

to live closer to the land and to have a farm with chickens,

horses, and other animals somewhere in Vermont. Obviously, due to

sheer exhaustion, I had flipped. I never before had any such

longings, but the feeling was real and stemmed, I thought, from

having been so close to the earth for longer than I ever have

before. I tried to picture myself returning home and explaining

our new life to my wife. How we were going to sell everything,

quit our jobs and move way up north to the country. Then, in my

minds eye, I saw the look of fear and pity in her eyes as she

tried to remember where the closest mental hospital was, hoping

that my medical insurance would pay for it. I knew I had to pull

myself together, and that in reality I would last only about a

week on a farm.

Farm shed.

At about 9:00 P.M. I arrived at Ventas de Naron, some 37 km from

Sarria where I started 14 hours earlier. This was a long day for

me and I was exhausted. I found the refugio easily, since it is

right on the road as I entered the town, and went in and claimed a

bunk. The place was full. Apparently everyone shared my feelings

about the creepy refugio back at Gonzar. After dropping off my

pack, I ventured the few steps into town and sat down at a table

at the only restaurant. This was a tiny place with two tables

right on the street and run by a very cordial and happy couple. At

the other table sat Philip, the Canadian, whom I have been running

into on and off since Roncesvalles, another Canadian, and the New

Zealander, Nick. My new acquaintance, Juan, turned up and shared

my table. I ordered a tortilla and the host told me that she had

used up her last eggs but would go to a neighbor and borrow some,

which she did. I was very grateful, and after a grand dinner,

returned to the refugio and found my bunk. That night I had a

dream that my father came to a class I was teaching. I had the

feeling that he was proud and loving - the opposite of how he was

when he was alive.

Horrero for drying grain.