Arca do Pino to Santiago de Compostela

Our last three days on the Camino. Two and a half, really, as we retargeted our resting places in order to arrive in Santiago in time for noon mass on Saturday.

Lunch Break

The weather has definitely changed. Grey skies with the constant threat of drizzle if not rain. The countryside surrounding us is a green mosaic, thanks to the moist Atlantic winds. The eucalyptus trees reach up, tall and slender, to the sky above. The flowers thrive.

Eucalyptus

While our eyes were fixed on the remaining kilometres, our thoughts were on those we had accomplished. Constant reminders of experiences from this year and from the year before. A cross. A kilometre stone. A resting pilgrim. A stone heart created by a reiki healer--or by a follower.

Could It Have Been Brian's Work?

On the Trail

We enjoyed our final casa rural at Arca do Pino, where we took advantage of its washing machine and dryer to process our clothes. All our clothes, as we wanted to explore Santiago in a state of cleanliness, although we would not be prepared to engage in the tradition of Lavacolla, our next port of call.

Our way led us over gentle slopes and through shallow valleys. Galicia was comfortable and easy, not spectacular.


Approaching Lavacolla we found Santiago's international airport blocking our way. At the very least the powers that be could have given pilgrims a right of way across the tarmac, interrupting flights when necessary. Instead we were forced to march several kilometres out of our way around the end of the long runway.



Only Twenty More to Go

The insertion of the airport into that location, however, did lead to one curious outcome. For several days we had become accustomed to encountering stone markers every tenth of a kilometre, with the remaining distance to Santiago shown. On the other side of the airport, closer to Santiago, markers were not to be seen. The markers had been removed. If the markers had been left there they would have shown that the markers prior to the airport no longer were truthful. They should have been adjusted to allow for the extra mileage around the airport. New markers on the Camino on the Santiago side of the airport would have revealed the disconnect with the earlier markers.

In Lavacolla at the Hostal O'Pino the crowds of pilgrims began to build up. The establishment had grown since I was last there, and a new building had been put up just outside the hostal compound. The compound, however, contained a derelict building whose owner was demanding of the hostal owners more than the site was worth. Just because we are on the Camino close to Santiago, there is no reason for everyone to behave as good Christians should.

Breakfast at the first opportunity and an early morning start had us on our way before eight. The rain that had been threatening now came down, but with interruptions that generated rainbows.


Monte do Gozo (Mountain of Joy) and the monument commemorating the visit by Pope John Paul II slid by.

John Paul II Monument

Chapel, Monte do Gozo

We crossed the city limits. A long walk through streets that made one realize how large the city had become. At last a sight of the cathedral tower.

The four of us walked through the Arco Palacio, holding hands, into the Praza do Obradoiro.

Praza do Obradoiro

An about turn and there, in front of us and above us, the baroque facade of Santiago's cathedral.

Portomarín to Arzua

Saturday looms five days away. Our Camino is coming to an end. A slight sigh of relief washed away by a river of regret, regret that an all absorbing experience is drawing to a close. More completely for some than others.


The atmosphere of these final days differs markedly from the freshness of the Navarrese hills and the monumental majesty of the Castillian plains. The Galician scenery is smaller in scale, a monochromatic green. Yes there are Camino markers, chapels, shrines, crosses:











Mary


























Cross, Ligonde










































San Roque, who appeared to be getting more attention in Galacia than elsewhere




























and, of course, the never ending stream of bridges.

None of these Camino campanions, however, came with the pedigree that the churches and towns of Castille and León provide. Yet the desire to include more information, more pictures grows in strength, likely fed by awareness that the opportunities to feed the blog are about to disappear.

Our attempt to take in the sights of Portomarín was frustrated once again by our choice of day: tourist attractions in Spain are closed on Mondays. A visit to the interior of the Templar church will remain on my "to do" list for the future.










Church of San Nicholas, Portomarín


























As we climbed out of the town, however, on our way to Ligonde we encountered our first pilgrim on horseback. He would reach Santiago before us.

Encarnita, on Foot

Joseph, emerged from a farm house in the neighbourhood of Hospital de la Cruz, and informed us of the crash of the Air France flight from Brazil to Paris. That sad news led to a half hour conversation in which Joseph recounted his experience of isolation as a migrant worker in France, his return to take over the family farm when in his forties, his formation of a family, and his desire never to be far from his inventory of animals and equipment and to keep both feet firmly on the ground.

That evening our accommodation would not be located on the Camino. José had spent two years converting an old farm in nearby Monterosso into a beautiful casa rural: spacious rooms, antique furniture and good food.

Casa Rural, Monterosso

The purity of our Camino was not impaired as José met us on the Camino in Eirexe and returned us to the very same spot the next morning.

Foggy Morning, Eirexe

The Camino continues to be populated by people stories, not all of which hung together. Nearing Palas de Rei we met a German and his large black dog walking in the other direction. He had walked the Camino .... He was retracing his steps to meet his wife .... She had been injured on the Camino but was now completing it .... This routine of a couple proceeding in opposite directions, we were told, was completed daily .... No matter how hard we tried, we were unable to fit this gentleman's set of facts to a single, consistent story.

John and Louise were an American and Irish woman who took over our table at a sidewalk café in Palas de Rei where we had enjoyed a very taste snack of octopus. Louise, who had walked the Camino before, was introducing John to the experience. Encarnita, as was her wont, moved directly to the questions that interested her. Learning they were not married and did not have specific plans in that direction, she managed to invite herself to the wedding, whenever it took place, provided it was in Ireland, a country Encarnita always had wanted to see. The honeymoon, in part, would be in Toronto, at our home.











Chorus Line












Poppies










After another night in a well equipped casa rural near Laboreiro, energetically run by Puri, we moved on to Melide, where we said good-bye to Kike, the facilitator of John Anthony's surprise appearance.


A taxi ride back to Portomarín where he picked up his car had him back in Madrid by dinner-time.

Galician Countryside

That evening we reached Arzua. The reservation we had made by phone turned out to be the same pension Bill and I had stayed in five years before. There was Manuel, a familiar face, sitting in his chair on the sidewalk between two doors. One door gave access to the pension, private rooms with baths; the other to an albergue with dormitory accommodation. His recommended route to good food worked well.

O'Cebreiro to Portomarín

Now we are three on the Camino--plus Ludwig, our new mascot.

Leaving O'Cebreiro

The first half of the walk to Triacastela follows the crest of the ridge, with alternating views into the valleys far below to the north and to the south. We crossed an asphalt road and were following a dirt track when a man came running up to us in the opposite direction. Hair dishevelled, panting and out of breath, he shouted at us to turn around and follow the road. The track would become intolerably steep, and our faces would be pressed into the dirt of the hill. It was not a climb to undertake. Ignoring him, we pushed on. At no point was the Camino ever that challenging. Yes, we did find a steep climb for a few hundred metres, but the track provided the appropriate zigzags to help us to the top, where there was a bar. As we rewarded ourselves with a beer, we wondered what could possibly have led to such a panicky reaction.

St. James on the Lookout

On the Way to Triacastela

On our way down to Triacastela we could see a major quarry on the other side of the valley. In the middle ages it had been a source of limestone which the pilgrims would carry to Santiago as a personal contribution to the building of the cathedral. We found our packs quite sufficient and we had no idea how the medieval pilgrim managed to carry a meaningful amount to his ultimate destination.

We debated which route we would follow from Triacastela to Sarria: the shorter, but higher San Gil path, or the longer, lower route that took the pilgrim through the monastery town of Samos. We opted for the latter, although eventually forged an even longer but thoroughly delightful itinerary which took us from Samos over to the San Gil path before reaching Sarria.

The Monastery at Samos

The monastery's existence goes back centuries and its role in the history of Spain is extensive. Its buildings, however, are of recent vintage as a result of serious fires. Only half the enormous library was saved.

Camino Village

Teresa and Encarnita

On the Camino six degrees of separation are more than needed. Most of the time only a couple are needed. Encarnita met Teresa from Zamora. Teresa lived in Oslo, Norway, and was friendly with the small Mexican community. She did not know John Anthony's sister-in-law Tanía, but I am certain she would within a few days of returning to her home.

Roadside Shrine

Sarria on a Saturday night is lively. The town sits on a hill that lies between two rivers that come together a short distance below the town. One of the rivers, Rio Sarria, parallels the main street and the promenade that follows its bank is lined with bars and restaurants. Across the river a wedding celebration underway. As Encarnita, Sara and I were enjoying dinner, the guests were between ceremony and reception and enjoying a stroll along the promenade. The dresses were lavish in colour, adornment and length. One could easily see the difficulties one has in satisfying the requirements of good taste in the shops of a relatively small city.

The walk from Sarria to Portomarín took us past farm field after farm field. Grain. Potatoes. Sometimes we were in the open, sometimes under the shelter of stately trees.


At Barbadelo we decided not to visit the farm where I had stayed five years before. Instead we visited with a neighbour of Carmen, an older gentleman who was tending to his cows. Or at least, who should have been tending to his cows, according to his wife who instructed him from a distance to get on with it.

Self-service Convenience Store for Twenty-first Century Pilgrims

On the Way to Portomarín

Only 100 kilometres more to go

Hórreo, or Raised Granary

At last one gains the view of Portomarín crowned by its Templar church on the other side of the Rio Miño, which at that point is dammed up to form a long, winding lake. The descent to the bridge across the lake is long, as is the climb up to the town on the far side. At this time of year the water level of the lake is high; by fall it will be down to a point where the foundations of homes that had to be abandoned when the dam was built can be seen.

Portomarín and the Church of San Nicolás

Our home for the night would be what is termed a Centro Turistico Rural, 800 metres outside town in the direction of the lake. A large stone building that had likely at one point been a combined home and barn, and now served as a lounge and restaurant drew us like a magnet. The main lodge with half a dozen bedrooms and separate cabins spread around the fields were all made of logs, North American in design. A few couples had pitched tents in the field. A variety of recreational activities were offered including horse back riding.

Centro Turistico Rural - Portomarín

My interest, however, was focused on my watch. The last surprise, surprise for Encarnita, was about to unfold. She knew that Kike, the son of a very good friend from her childhood in Granada was driving up from Madrid to join us for a few days on the Camino. The relationship goes back even further, as Kike's grandfather and Encarnita's father were best friends. What had been arranged, however, was a flight that would bring John Anthony from Mexico to Madrid. We had done our best to keep Encarnita unaware of this added touch.

Encarnita was suspicious about Kike's driving six hours to join us. There had to be more afoot than two days on the Camino. She remembered how John Anthony, with her help, had surprised me in Leon the first time I was on the Camino. A number of times during the past three weeks she had asked me if John Anthony would be joining us. I did the best I could to deflect the notion, but Encarnita intuitively was certain that at some point her son would appear. That intuitive foreknowledge, however, did not in any way diminish the embrace they gave each other when at midnight he appeared from Kike's car. Now we were four on the Camino, five for a few days.

Ponferrada to O'Cebreiro

Four leisurely days took us through the Bierzo bowl, which lies at the westernmost end of the Castilla-Leon region, to the celtic village of O'Cebreiro, perched high up on the Galician frontier. As we walked one could not help smiling at the amusing linkage with Canada. A week before when we crossed over into the Leon half of this joint Castilla-Leon region, we saw the graffiti promoting an "Independent Leon". Now that we were leaving the western Bierzan end of Leon and entering Galicia, we saw different graffiti: "Bierzo belongs to Galicia". Separation forever.



While the first two days led us through vineyard after vineyard, once we reached Villafranca del Bierzo we were climbing up through a steadily narrowing valley, only partially in the hands of agriculture. Although the ascent was at times draining for both of us, I was spurred along by the surprise that was in store for Encarnita at O'Cebreiro. I was fully complicit in the arrangement and restrained myself accordingly.

Gillian walked with us from Ponferrada to Cacabelos and on to Trabadelo. Her comfortable pace differed from ours, and it was clear we should proceed independently and come together again once we were all in Santiago. The vineyards before and after Cacabelos were extensive, weaving their texture across the gently rolling landscape. My memory of the LCBO shelves told me that Ontario was not bringing into the province a fair share of these excellent wines. It took some searching in Cacabelos but I eventually located the delightful restaurant where John Anthony and I had dined on our last evening together on the Camino five years before.

The monuments at Villafranca del Bierzo had interesting stories to tell. A Pope centuries ago had given a special dispensation to the town's old romanesque church: if a pilgrim who had struggled to reach Santiago but whose health permitted him to go no farther presented himself at the church's north door, the Puerta del Perdón, he would be given the same relief he would have received had he made it all the way to Santiago. Provided, that is, that the pilgrim presented himself during a holy year, a year in which the day of Saint James falls on a Sunday.




The stolid looking castle had been restored and one wing had been occupied by Spain's pre-eminent contemporary composer of classical music, Ernesto Halffter: this piece of trivial information took Encarnita and me back to the years when we would attend with her father the International Festival of Music and Dance in Granada.

Leaving Villafranca we climbed 350 metres to the crest of the valley's north ridge which we followed for the next three hours before descending to Trabadelo. The deviation was well worth the effort, as the air was fresh and the views extensive, a far better route than walking beside the old highway as it worked its way up the valley. It did take some time, however, before Encarnita forgave me. Leaving Villafranca there was a sign pointing out both the highway route and the alternative which we followed. The sign indicated that the latter was "alta dificultad". When we reached the sign I positioned myself in such a way that Encarnita would not see the defining adjectives. I knew that however strenuous the alternative path might be, it would not present any climbing difficulties. Nevertheless, silence reigned for some time.



We decided to break the trip from Trabadelo to O'Cebreiro into two days, stopping overnight at Las Herrerias, where we were accommodated in a quaint but very appealing casa rural: wonderful view across the valley, excellent cuisine and airy rooms. When we arrived a banquet was in progress for a group of engineers, and Encarnita ended up being presented with a gift package containing goat's cheese and a jar of cooked red peppers.



















The narrowing valley lent itself to all manner of military activity. The Castillo de Sarracín was in a prime location to control traffic up and down the valley.







The next day we undertook our climb, starting at 500 metres and finishing at 1400. At first we were climbing steeply through woods and half way up at La Faba we stopped for refreshments. The town still had no more than twenty inhabitants, including its massage parlour operated by resident hippies.

The day was sunny and we were in the open following a path edged by broome and heather. Even in this remote area Encarnita found people with whom to talk.



Her conversation with Francisco, a shepherd who was keeping a loose eye on his two cows, revealed that a Canadian company had operated a silver and zinc mine for many years in the valley, but closed and sealed it off a few years earlier. A permanent consequence was the migration of young local women to Canada as brides of Canadian mine workers.

Ahead we could see high above us the town of O'Cebreiro. Gradually the rate of ascent slowed as we neared this delightful village of stone houses and thatched roofs.





























Its church commemorates a miracle: a sceptical priest was performing mass on a stormy winter day when struggling into the church came the sole communicant, a shepherd from the valley below. When the host at the mass proved to be real flesh and the wine blood, the site was venerated.























Communion Cup, O´Cebreiro







For Encarnita, however, the surprise at dinner was the miracle. The two of us were enjoying our meal in the dining room of the casa rural where we were staying. Encarnita's back was to the door, when someone coming in dropped off a small, stuffed animal on our table. The mascot was a beaver, bearing a Canadian flag. Encarnita could not figure out where it came from when she looked up to see our daughter Sara's face in the door. Sara had flown overnight from Toronto to Madrid, and immediately taken a bus to Ponferrada and a taxi to O'Cebreiro. She caught her mother one hundred percent by surprise. Encarnita was thinking that John Anthony might possibly make an appearance, but never Sara.