Kiwi on the Camino

by Vivianne Flintoff

  The guidebook tells us there are three possible routes. The Alto Dragonte (1,050m), the Alto Pradela (930m) and the low road route (slight uphill gradient only) which follows the N-6. To walk the Alto Dragonte you need to have a good sense of direction as the waymarking is poor. You also need to be fit for you may need to retrace your steps should you lose the path. There are the rewards of spectacular views, should the weather allow you to see the vista. Of course, I have my mind set on walking the Alto Dragonte route. Here is a challenge. Fortunately, sense prevails and Bruce is hugely relieved when I agree to take the second option, the Alto Pradela, because of the intimidating weather. I know that mountains are dangerous and the snowplough experience is still fresh in my memory. We have a sense of urgency, for the clouds, absent earlier in the day, have now gathered in force and are darkening even as we plot our route and come to agreement on a plan. The second guidebook (the one we had left in New Zealand) had warned that the Alto Pradela route should be avoided if the pilgrim has knee problems.

  Walking towards the Río Búrbia, we see the reunited couple from Bolivia walking in what I think is the wrong direction. They see us and change course. Crossing via the Puente Río Búrbia, we notice the rush of snowmelt beneath us and looking down-stream, observe how the turbulence increases where the waters of the Río Valcarce join the Búrbia.

  I am on high alert watching for the detour to the Alto Pradela, another turn off easy to miss. The detour will take us up a steep cobbled street. When I see a road that I think is the exit, Bruce is dubious. I’m not sure either, but the expected junction is only fifty metres from the river. This must be the way even though there are no arrows. The street is narrow and then it narrows again almost immediately. Even my brother’s little car would struggle to pass up this street.

  On the left, the houses are just one room deep, single storied and built on the cliff edge of this hill we are now climbing. Opposite these endangered houses, are three storied homes, possibly with pleasant river views. I am too anxious to turn around and look. A dog runs out and barks at us in an exceedingly unfriendly manner. A young boy comes out of a house to watch us straining up his steep street. He makes no attempt to call the dog to heel. Neither does he wish us Buen Camino. Perhaps there are so many pilgrims walking past his door he has become inured to their presence. Whatever is causing him to not call off his dog, is irrelevant in the moment. I have my tramping poles at the ready.

  Bruce and I pass both boy and dog unscathed and anxiously search for a sign that we are indeed on the Camino Pradela. The cobbles run out and we are on a dirt path with some vineyards and small gardens on the left. A pine forest looms above. “Is that the rock one kilometre from the river?” The climb is less steep now and there in front of us, are some stone cairns, personal pilgrim altars. We are on the Camino. Up ahead we notice a tall radio mast and set our sights on that. It helps the climb to have markers to break the journey.

  We leave the pine trees behind and are now above the tree line. The views down to and across the Valcarce valley are awe inspiring. The noise from the A-6, some six hundred metres below, rises faintly. I have a brief contemptuous glance at the valley floor, so relieved to not be walking beside the A-6. I breathe with delight. We are back in a wilderness rock garden. In addition to the flowers we had seen on our descent into Molinaseca, there are now forget-me-nots. The path feels wild and isolated. Across the valley is the Alto Dragonte path, but I am content with the path we have chosen. My going is slow as I just have to photograph the beauty unfolding on this windswept, rain drenched rock. At the high point, I catch up with Bruce sitting with three pilgrims, two German and one Dutch. They clap my arrival.

  The other pilgrims leave and Bruce and I prepare to walk on. I help Bruce with his pack then he helps me with mine. We turn a corner and the landscape changes. Gone are the rock gardens. Bruce and I are now walking through a plantation of large chestnut trees. We come to a fork in the path and deliberately take the lower path knowing it is the wrong way. We are again out of water and the detour will take us to the village of Pradela. I am dehydrated and very cranky with it. I have plunged from my rock-garden mountain top ecstasy, into the valley of despair and desperation, due to thirst and tiredness.

  We are now walking down a gentle sloping path. To our left, up on the hill where the Camino path runs, are chestnut trees. Fenced paddocks are to our right. A curious donkey is tethered and stops his eating to look at Bruce. They regard one another for a while and then I call Bruce on. I can now see the village. The one bar in this village better be open or, at the very least, we need a functioning village well. As we enter the village we turn right and a kindly villager waves his arms and points in the opposite direction. “Camino!” We thank him and dutifully head left away from where I think we will find the one village bar. I am too tired to go and ask him where we can find the village well. I begin to lose hope of finding water in this village. A little further on, we round a corner and there is a fountain spilling into a well-like stone enclosure. It is refreshing, clean water. I drink deeply and gradually my emotions lift as the water flows into my body. I am grateful.

  The water drama over, we re-join the Camino path and begin the steep descent. I now understand the guidebook warning about not attempting this descent with problem knees. It would be a killer. I am grateful my knees are pain free. The A-6 is approximately nine hundred and thirty metres below. “Do we have to descend all that way down to that road?” “No,” I reply, only because I too cannot face the thought of walking that far down such a steep road. I suspect we must. The two mountain routes join with the road route down on the valley floor. That is where the albergue will be. About half way down I call a halt. We take off our packs, footwear and socks, and lie on the grass verge between the road and the safety barrier. There is not enough room to lie on the grass on the other side of the barrier. If I was to suffer from vertigo this would have been the opportunity to suffer it. Climbing over that barrier was sure to bring on such an attack.

  A truck approaches and slows down when the driver sees us. The truck is heavily laden with a load of large chestnut branches. The driver glances at us to check how long we might have been lying there. He decides we are okay so carries on. On the other hand, he may have just been slowing down to negotiate the very tight upcoming bend and wondering if he can get around it without needing the verge on which we are lying. He and the truck manage the corner and we continue dozing.

  However, even a sluggard knows that to find a bed, one should get up off the ground. We again begin our steep descent walking beside the road. We go down, down, down. Bruce doesn’t bother asking again if we must go all the way down. It is obvious by now that we must. Closer to the valley floor, a path leads off from the road. This path promises to save us time, being a shorter route without all the hairpin road bends. The going is very uneven and the large, rough, stone steps are hard on ankles, knees and thighs. Then the path turns into a woodland and now the track runs with green mud between high rock walls. Cattle frequent the path as they are led out to pasture for a few hours each day. Providentially, we are the only animals using this narrow, muddy walking gorge.

  We see a welcome sight. A parish albergue not yet listed in the guidebook. We are hailed by three people sitting on the front terrace. Bruce and I look at each other then walk over to the building. We are warmly welcomed and taken indoors. The couple are both unemployed, and with one of their mothers, are creating a haven of peace to welcome pilgrims to their small village. Upstairs we are given a room to ourselves with two single beds with sheets. Luxury. There is also a washing machine, but no drying racks. Our clothes will be clean, but possibly not completely dry by morning. We decide to worry about that in the morning when our clothes will be needed. Our body heat would soon dry them anyway. A pilgrim from Madrid says he will talk with our kind hosts and suggest a drying rack would be useful.

  There is a small kitchen and dining table where the five pil
grims gather. We learn that coffee will be made for us in the morning. I rate the albergue seven stars. Sheets, washing machine and coffee. One of the pilgrims shares how he had mistakenly taken the Alto Dragonte route. He very soon ran out of path. When very high up, he spotted a man with a rifle and was not at all sure he was safe. This pilgrim had some very anxious minutes ascertaining his next best move. Luckily, as he looked around he spotted the village of Trabadelo a long way below and crashed his way down to the village. The helpful pilgrim from Madrid called out to him and together they found this welcoming albergue. The pilgrim who walked the route ‘very less travelled’ was exceedingly weary and overwhelmingly glad to be safe. For my part I was grateful for the weather report and our subsequent decision to do the ‘less challenging and less exciting walk.’

  Trabadelo to O’Cebreiro

  18 kms (11.2 ml)

  173.3 kms (107.7 ml) to Santiago

  Until we allow some of nature’s stillness to reclaim us,

  we will remain victims of the instant and

  never enter the heritage of our ancient belonging.

  John O’Donohue (1956 – 2008)

  April 23, Day 33

  THE MORNING COFFEE IS VERY good. There is low mountain fog as we set off. I am distressed, for the day had begun with political conversations at the breakfast table, and while such topics are important, it is too early in the day for me to be listening to the problems of the world.

  As we walk the fog begins to lift and the sun appears. My mood shifts and I am happy. We are walking in the deep valley we had viewed from the sky yesterday. The valley is alive with spring sounds and the sky is turning from an obscure pale grey to gold. A swift, fish-filled stream chatters beside us. Occasionally, we pass tiny farm holdings with fences, stone walls and a small home orchard. Beside the river, where there are small glades of grass, we see flocks of sheep, numbering about fifteen, with a few lambs. In other glades, small herds of cattle graze, usually no more than ten together. The herd consists of a bull, cows, a few yearlings, and a couple of new born calves. The herds’ bells, the sound of running water and the occasional waterfall, drown out the motorised sounds from the A-6 now high above.

  The A-6 occasionally zigzags across the valley on flyovers standing on pillars as high as the crowns of the valley walls. Steel pylon giants stride along the ridge line to the right, threaded with huge black wires. The pillars, road and pylons do not overly intrude on us, the human ants, crawling along the valley floor. We are too happy to be upset by such gross tribute to the modern need for speed and electricity. Yesterday we had walked on the peaks, with cars moving as mice on the valley floor. Today, we enjoy the valley floor and the cars and power giants monopolize the peaks. In the spaces between the villages, the solitude of nature captivates me. Our walk up the Valcarce valley will be one we long remember.

  We enter Vega de Valcarce and on our left, is a stone building recently renovated. It is a bar so we stop for coffee. A mother and her two daughters are running the bar. They are wearing smocks like the one we had seen the pitchfork carrying farmer wear. Is this a local version of an apron to keep the ‘real’ dress clean? There are photos of family members on three of the walls alongside photos and posters of their favourite football team. We order a coffee each and two tarta de Santiago (almond tarts) for Bruce, which are a delicacy of the region. I love almond, so eat one of the tarts. Bruce and I enjoy our conversation with the women. We are nearing Galicia where so many men have left to find paid employment. The women now run the farms, shops and bars.

  Caffeine addiction appeased, we begin a slow walk through this little village that appears, to me as an outsider, almost undisturbed by the motorway high overhead. That is apart from the few houses which now sit in the shadow of the goliath-sized concrete pillars. Outside the very small grocery store is a delivery van. The rear door is lifted high and the driver is nowhere in sight. What is in sight is all the produce stacked high inside the van waiting to be delivered. In these isolated villages, where neighbours know each other, unattended grocery vans can be safely left on the village street without fear of theft.

  We stop for I need to investigate my foot. I have a new small blister threatening. How can this be? Further along this sunny street we see a young woman sitting with one foot cradled over the thigh of her other leg. Her boot has been removed and her face is etched with pain and despair. She says, “I’m stuck, I cannot move anymore and there are no buses or taxis running today.” I had forgotten it is a public holiday and I had heard there would be no public transport. “It’s possible to hire a horse in this village to get you up the mountain to O’Cebreiro,” I offer. She shakes her head. Any effort is just too much for her. “Is there anything we can help you with?” She shakes her head again and we feel helpless in the face of her misery. The realisation that her Camino is over, sits freshly with her. We walk on.

  As we continue along this charming Valcarce Valley, we stop beside a small stone pre-Romanesque chapel, and without much hope of it being open, climb down off the road. It is open. We linger in this small, holy place to pray. There are just six pews in this tiny chapel. The presence of prayer, which over the centuries has been breathed and uttered in this hallowed space, is palpable. The walls of roughly shaped stone are about two feet thick. The single internal door is made from ancient hand hewn timber with visible axe marks. Behind the tiny altar are six figures picked out in gold leaf. The paintings on the walls beside the carvings still have their original colours of blue and red. The wooden frame of the solitary window, close to the altar, looks to have been recently replaced. The window directs the sunshine onto the gold leaf and paintings. The light is such a change from the dim interiors of most churches we have seen, where artificial light was needed to render artwork visible. Such tender care and thought has been given to the decoration of the tiny chapel.

  Our steep, slow climb of six hundred metres begins. We of course choose the path that leaves the road which will take us up through the Spanish chestnut trees. As Bruce and I leave the tarmac, another couple walks by, choosing to stay on the road. They look at us oldies and we realise this is a challenge. Which couple will make the top first? The road team or the path team?

  Spring has not yet arrived at this altitude and the deciduous trees stand bare, except for the moss that hangs down in places: a fitting environment for Gandalf. The path is steep, the ground and schist uneven underfoot. However, the sun filters through the bare branches, moss and the leaves of the evergreen trees. We need to stop to slow our breathing. Bruce and I agree that having stops to take in the scenery is always helpful when climbing steeply. Despite the cool temperature, we are heating up. We overtake another couple. Not bad for oldies. We wonder how the two trudging up the road are doing.

  I look ahead and it is a yak attack. Coming down the narrow stony path are five cows bringing their herder in their wake. We four pilgrims move quickly to the side of the path, as these cows have awesome horns. When Bruce and I were in Nepal at the altitude where only yaks can work in the oxygen reduced atmosphere, we soon learned to climb the mountainside to get out of the way of yak trains. The yaks, like the Galician cows, had horns aplenty. One of our party, on the Everest Base Camp trail, once made the mistake of going to the wrong side of the trail. All the rest of us, including the guides, yelled frantically at him, waving our arms strenuously. One little nudge by a yak and he would have been vulture fodder.

  At la Faba we join other pilgrims for a refreshment stop. With renewed energy thanks to the break, knowing we do not have far to walk, we take our time and enjoy the open country with green pasture in every direction. Rounded hills fold one behind another. A little higher up, the heather in its pink glory dominates with occasional brown hued heather trying to nudge in. The landscape is intensely coloured and magical: immense with hills, valleys and sky. Yesterday the sky felt low, but today, once the fog dispersed, the sky lifted and returned to the heavens. T
he valley with the trees, stream, marching pylons, and overhead roads, is left behind. The majesty of the hills and valleys requires us to stop and pay attention every now and then, for the views are spectacular. We are almost in Galicia and despite the region’s reputation for rain, we are in sunshine and joy.

  Around a bend, we meet a young pilgrim from England who is standing still, staring. “Isn’t it absolutely amazing,” he exults. We agree. Then, to get a better view, he leaves the path, climbs a gate and strides to a higher spot to see just that little bit further. Perhaps, if I came from England where the highest hill, Scafell Pike in the Lake District, stands at just 978 metres above sea level, I too would want to climb even higher to improve my view, despite trespassing on private land. Not all pilgrims we meet are so enthusiastic. Others are overwhelmed by the strenuous effort needed for the climb, and despite frequent stops, are too windblown to notice the magic around them.

  The village of O’Cebreiro is delightful and totally unlike expectation. I had read that the Celts of Ireland had left from the shores of Galicia and I am entranced with the thatched, round, stone grocery store on poles from which we hear piped bagpipe music. O’Cebreiro is a tourist village with just nine stone houses with grey slate roofs. In this village is the 9th century church of Santa María a Real. I am looking forward to visiting this church, the oldest still in existence, which is associated with the Camino. The original pilgrim hospital run by French monks has long since disappeared.