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.