It begins to rain heavily and by the time we reach Riego de Ambrós we are very wet and cold; it is definitely not picnic weather. We stop at a bar for lunch. Groups of pilgrims are inside and there is a thick fug generated by the warm bodies and wet raincoats. We take off our wet weather gear, but leave our boots on. One of the pilgrims is Irish and we have a very merry time. It is still raining after lunch so we agree to stop for the night in this village. The first albergue is not to our liking, the second neither, so despite being wet, cold and tired, we move on.
The sun comes out. We are still descending and find ourselves in a wilderness rock garden. What joy! The flowers of earlier days are here, plus lavender in full bloom ranging from light lilac to deep purple. There are small orange poppies, large red poppies and one-metre-high shrubs, with white flowers, which are sold in New Zealand, but whose name I forget. The white flowers are about three inches in diameter with a yellow centre and four burgundy lines radiating from the heart of the flower. This wild garden is stunning and sends a fragrance across our path as we continue to drop down, fast now. The spring green of silver birches, poplars and willows provide a frame for the pink heather and the yellow and white shrubs. Many streams run down the mountain to the valley below, adding music to the visual delights. I have heard of the splendour of the wild flowers of Austria and Switzerland, but never a whisper about the glories of spring in Spain. I walk in ecstasy with wild flowers and music all around. The afternoon sun warms my face and I breathe deeply, appreciating the fresh, clean air. I am full of the joy of life.
Not all pilgrims are feeling as I do. A couple from Sweden are very unhappy with the track. They are seated, taking a break, when we meet them. Their view is of a splendid landscape, with its flowers, birds and the swollen, snow melt river and accompanying rivulets. The couple inform us that this walk down the mountain is the worst stretch of the Camino. They are not happy with having to negotiate the narrow, step path with lose schist underfoot. Bruce and I mull over their experience after the couple start walking again. We agree that today will quite likely remain one of the highlights of the 900 kilometres.
Molinaseca comes into view. It is very picturesque. The Río Maruelo, which we have been following, runs through the centre of the town. Here it has widened and slowed its rush. Families are gathered at the tables of bars and restaurants placed under the trees along the river bank. We see the Swedish couple again. He is seated with pack off, and she, also minus pack, is beginning to climb half way back up the mountain to where we had first met them. She left her walking pole behind.
“Let’s find the albergue and then come back and eat by the river,” I suggest. We walk down the pedestrian only Calle Real between double storied stone houses with black schist roofs. Bruce and I noticed the dramatic architectural change to black schist roofs when walking down to El Acebo. El Acebo had consisted of a long narrow street. There we walked between old, stone, two storied houses with overhanging wooden balconies on the second floor and I was reminded of the English nursery rhyme, “… .and they all lived together in a little crooked house.” The crooked external staircases reinforced the picture.
Now that we are at Molinaseca we are glad of the decision to walk on after lunch. The gladness evaporates when we arrive at the family run albergue. The bunkroom is full. How can this be? No albergue has been full so far as it is early in the season. There is a group of girls riding horses along the next stretch and they arrived before us. I am not sure what our faces register, but the generous host tells us, “You can have a private room up in the attic for the price of a bunkroom.” This generosity is offered before I can say, “It doesn’t have to be in the bunkroom. We will pay for a bed in whatever room you may still have.” It is a situation reminiscent of Christmas rather than Easter Sunday. I haven’t arrived on a donkey (or a horse) and I am not about to deliver a child, but we do need a roof over our heads and a bed.
Our liberal host takes us up a flight of stairs to the attic and shows us the room. It is tiny with a low roof and a ceiling window. It has two beds only with attractive duvets and pillows. Down two flights of stairs I find washing machines and the showers. We are so cosily established we decide against the walk back to the river and I sign us up for the pilgrims’ meal to be served in the large dining room.
The food smells very good. We join a long table and I sit opposite an Italian man. He has a little English and I no Italian. We are served lentil soup which I give to Bruce. (I do not know why for I like lentil soup.) Our next course arrives and it is spaghetti. I look over to the Italian and we both laugh, enjoying the ludicrousness of an Italian eating spaghetti in Spain, cooked by a Spaniard. Humour transcends cultural and language barriers. When the host returns to our table I say, “This Italian will let you know if the spaghetti is as good as he gets at home.” My dining companion understands (helped by my pantomime) and the three of us laugh.
Dinner is fun. My table companion and I share the dishes for two put in front of us. I eat his olives. He shows me photos of his child and two beagle dogs. He sadly indicates he has no photo of his wife to show me. I place my hand over my heart to indicate he carries her in his heart. I needed to respond somehow and with words not being an option, hand gestures, no matter how twee, must suffice.
I have three helpings of spaghetti, pass on the bread, and eat the salad, a slice of cake, half a peach and both my pineapple and my dinner companion’s pineapple. He walked thirty-six kilometres that day and left St-Jean-Pied-de-Port ten days after Bruce and me. Bruce is talking with a man from Denmark, seated beside him, who began his walk one day after us. He asks Bruce, “How was your first day?” “Great.” Bruce’s response encourages me. Both Bruce and I sleep well that night under our sloping roof, with its window to the night sky. What a fine end to a day which had begun under the shadow of worry and anxiety.
Molinaseca to Cacabelos
23.8 kms (14.8ml)
216.2 kms (134.3ml) to Santiago
In hoc signo vinces
In this sign thou shall conquer.
Knights Templar
April 21, Day 31, Easter Monday
WE WALK THE SEVEN KILOMETRES to Ponferrada and make our way to the Castillo de los Templarios (The Castle of the Knights Templar). This amazing 12th century castle has been partially restored and is a national monument. We pay the fee to enter, then find an elevator which takes us to the museum depicting life in medieval times. Bruce and I enjoy the models of medieval village life. There are also texts, both Templar and other religious writings, on display. The exhibition does not disappoint. We sometimes choose to forego museum or church visits if there is an entry fee, but this castle and museum we did not want to miss.
The Knights Templar was a chivalrous order dedicated to the protection of pilgrims. Someone told me that banking began with the Templars. Affluent pilgrims, not wanting to take their gold with them on the hazardous Camino, handed over their treasure to the knights who safeguarded it, until the pilgrim reached Santiago when it was returned. I do not know if this is fact, but I like the story. What is historical, is that the knights built many hospitals to care for pilgrims. The partially restored castle at Ponferrada, is possibly one of the finest of all that remains of the Knights Templar buildings.
The knights’ increasing influence in Europe became a threat to both Pope Gregory and King Philip of France, who looked askance at such a ‘theft’ of power away from themselves. Believed to be a risk to these two power brokers, on Friday 13th of October 1307, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar and many other knights, were arrested and later put to death. Such was the trauma of this massacre in medieval minds, that the legacy of the event still survives. Friday 13th continues to be called ‘Black Friday.’ Hotels, airplanes, ships et cetera, remove the number ‘13’ from their floors, doors and rows. Don’t bother looking for row number 13 on the airplane when you next travel.
From the castle monument, while standin
g in shadow, I look out across the landscape. The sun is sparkling on white and pale golden walls of houses, on grey schist and mantilla red roof tiles, on deep green mountain foothills and behind all this colour, there is the majesty of whitewashed peaks. So much glory in one glance.
The café we choose is all pink, pale aquamarine, chrome and very kitsch. We buy lunch and Bruce indulges in cake. He then sleeps in the chair as I catch up on notes and emails thanks to the abundance of wi-fi. Bruce does look a little out of place, as he slumbers in this somewhat feminine space. He wakes frequently enough to purchase more hot chocolate and cake which entitles me to further use of the wi-fi. It is congenial sitting here, but the packs are calling and we need to be on the road again. Neither of us wants to walk on the concrete paths through this large town, so we catch a taxi five kilometres to the small chapel, Ermita San Blas y San Roque.
The small stone chapel complete with one of the narrow bell towers that storks love, is the site of the original pilgrim hospital in the town. On the wall of the chapel is a very large and colourful pilgrim mural and a bright yellow arrow. Even Bruce can see this arrow. Given this spot turns out to be a landmark, my worries about communicating our destination to the taxi driver were groundless. The chapel is located on the main road and is close to the edge of town.
It was a good decision to take the taxi. We are now walking among market gardens and orchards, along a minor road. The sun is warm on my face. The fields around us are vibrant with red poppies wiggling in the light breeze. I just love these unexpected visions of beauty along The Way.
The landscape changes and we are now surrounded by grassy fields. In a little shaded gully two young deer are drinking. We stand transfixed. I am quiet. I had learnt my lesson back on the Routeburn track, Fiordland National Park, the first time we walked it. As was our want, Bruce and I were the first to leave the tramping hut. It was a cool, misty morning, with cloud filling the Hollyford Valley, obscuring both the Hollyford river and the road to Milford Sound. It was a breath-taking morning. The wet, broken schist beneath our feet was shining green, grey and brown in the pale light. We were above the bush line when, ahead of us on the track, stood a large stag with two hinds. “Wow!” The yell was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I had yelled as loudly as I possibly could and my voice echoed and bounced despite the weather conditions. The deer were gone. I could not have anticipated how fast an animal could run down a steep mountain side into the shelter of the trees. “What did you do that for?” “I was so excited.”
We leave the deer drinking and continue. Up ahead are some willows which might provide some screening for an urgent bathroom break. The next bar is still a way off. Pilgrims have been passing us at regular intervals, but it looks like we are alone in this secluded little dip. I duck off to the side and spot a large dock leaf which will do fine for the current purpose. I am averse to leaving behind tissue paper, of any variety, to litter and despoil the countryside. I assume the position taken by women the world over when neither porcelain bowl nor peewee is available, and my now exposed skin encounters an unexpected sensation. Nettles! I have to share the experience with Bruce. With all discretion gone I yell, “Bruce I’m squatting over a patch of nettles.” “Yeah?” comes the distant, unsatisfactory response to my painful plight. I recall my mediation.
As we release the strands we hold of others’ faults
Nettles or none, I am committed for the duration.
On the third day of our Camino I had come across what I thought might be mint growing beside the path. When I leaned over to smell the plant I had a sharp lesson in botany. The tip of my nose encountered a plant that we decided, retrospectively, must be a nettle. I kept my eye out for nettles for a while, but as we moved away from the wet mountains onto the Meseta, I forgot about the stinging plant. After this second encounter, I will remain on the lookout.
A little further on, I am distracted from the nettle induced discomfort, as we come to a sign advertising a private albergue in Cacabelos. There is a little trouble with the transcription.
970m at Cacabelos
○We have rooms from €15 and with bathe inside T.V.
○Food all day
○Internet booth
○We speak English
○Cheap prices
We didn’t stop to inspect what it would be like to take a bath inside a T.V. as I want to stop at the horseshoe shaped albergue in Cacabelos.
The albergue is shaped in a semi-circle around the church. The church, Capilla de Las Angustia, was built on the site of an earlier chapel and pilgrim hospital. These medieval hospitals were a place of hospitality, as well as care if you were ill. There is history here to see and note. We manage a short peek inside the church, but villagers are busy decorating it and I cannot recall any features apart from the rose stained glass window.
We are relieved to learn that the bunkrooms are not bunkrooms at all. Each room leading off the central courtyard has two single beds within. The drawback with this albergue is that the lounge area is outside with just a roof for shelter. It would be tricky in the wet, particularly as the, “No food and drink in the sleeping areas,” would be enforced here. Luckily, during our visit it is not raining. There are two large shower blocks and a place to hand wash clothes.
Given our longish walk, time spent roaming around the castle and sitting (or sleeping) at our ease in the pink and chrome café, we arrived at the albergue later than usual. Therefore, by the time we are ready to look for a restaurant, the Spanish are eating. We do not fear being locked out of the albergue as we have the key to our bedroom. Bruce and I have time to dine at our leisure. We choose a small restaurant and eat all that we can manage. We do not consume all the red table wine and leave it behind. We no longer carry wine at the expense of water. We both sleep well.
Cacabelos to Trabadelo
23 kms (14.3ml)
172 kms (106.9ml) to Santiago
The love of life is necessary to the vigorous
prosecution of any undertaking.
Dr Samuel Johnson (1709 - 1784)
April 22, Day 32
WE AMBLE SLOWLY TOWARDS VILLAFRANCA del Bierzo, just eight kilometres away, our destination for the day. I had given this small town three ticks prior to leaving New Zealand. We anticpate looking at the one castle and three churches, one of which is the 12th century Romanesque Church of Santiago with its north entrance, Puerta del Perdón (Door of Forgiveness). Like the Alto del Perdón, medieval pilgrims who knew they would not reach Santiago, could receive absolution of their sins at this door. Thus, Villafranca with its special north door, was sometimes known as the ‘other’ or ‘little Santiago.’ I wonder what would be the situation if the pilgrim, who was about to expire, was walking on behalf of another? Would just the walking pilgrim receive absolution?
Our stroll towards Villafranca takes us along unsealed country roads, which are made of compacted red stony soil, reminiscent of our Rioja days. The grapevines are now in full leaf. In places these narrow roads are lined with blackberry bushes some with early flowers. There are pink roses in bloom and a large shrub which is mostly hidden under an abundance of white flowers. The path dips and our way is lined by tall poplars. It is so good to be under tall green trees again. I had missed trees on the Meseta and bemoaned the absence of shade. I am now welcoming the trees for their spring freshness and the sense of space and room beneath them. We arrive at Valtuille de Arriba, a quiet, little place and so picturesque. The villagers greet us with encouraging smiles.
Bruce and I are enjoying our slow pace and the gentleness of the landscape. With the undulations of the country landscape, it feels as if we are on an ocean of red. To our left are a farming couple going about their work. She wears a gingham type smock with knee high gumboots and has a pitch fork over one shoulder. Her face is warm with her smile and wrinkles. He is on a small tractor towing a diminutive trailer which contains t
he deposits their animals have dropped on the barn floor. It is about to be spread over their land. “Will she do the spreading?” We do not wait to see the answer to my question.
Bother, I need to stop again. I start looking for a suitable hiding place. “Oh yes, how have you got on?” he asks, remembering the nettle incident of some 24 hours earlier. I consider the question late in coming, but at least he remembers. “Watch out for nettles.” A real funny guy.
Villafranca lies in the valley below and we stop and marvel at the attractive setting, with the town so perfectly nestled beside the Búrbia River. The surrounding hills are high and we know that tomorrow we will need to climb 1,050 metres. The ascent and following descent look vertiginous. The temperature drops as we begin our steep descent into the town. We are both hungry, so decide to head for the Plaza Mayor which is reputed to have many outside café tables. Before we reach the Plaza, we stop and talk with a couple from Bolivia. We have seen them a few times now. He looks to be having a lot of trouble with one of his knees. They want to find the Information Office, so I show them the town map in my guidebook. They do not seem to have a guidebook.
We reach the plaza. Though now very hungry, it takes us a while to decide where to eat. At first, we sit inside because of the cold, but then want to be outside as the square is so attractive. Moving outside, we see the man from Bolivia. He says he has lost his wife. Her phone battery is flat, so he cannot call her. He left a message for her at the Information Centre hoping she will go back there when she cannot find him. We promise to tell her about the message at the Information Centre if we see her before he does.
I order pork paella for Bruce, but he receives a prawn paella which he says, “is nutritious.” This is high praise from Bruce and translates as, “Gosh, I really enjoyed that meal.” I eat a whole pizza and I rarely ever eat pizza. Half way through the pizza I have the brief thought of leaving the remainder for Bruce, but it is just a fleeting, non-embedding thought. I also eat three deep fried somethings which may or may not have had potato as an ingredient. Usually deep fried food is also anathema to me, but it goes down easily. I order a large coffee, which I follow with a large hot chocolate drink. Two hours later we are still sitting at the table. I check the weather forecast for the following day and it does not look propitious - not the sort of weather in which to be walking up a mountain. We make the decision to leave Villafranca and walk to Trabedelo before the weather breaks. So much for the three ticks.
Kiwi on the Camino Page 22