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.