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Sarria to Portomarin
In the morning, I woke up feeling great. I had gotten a good night's
sleep due to the fact that I had been in a small room all by myself.
My good fortune was due to a thoughtful hospitalera. As I checked
into the albergue, I asked her, "¿Tiene una cama
lejos las otras? Soy un roncador. ¡La gente no le gusta a me!"
(Do you have a bed far from the others? I'm a snorer. The other
people don't like me.) She showed me to a small room on the ground floor
that was used for sick or invalid pilgrims. If such a person didn't
appear by 7:30, I could use the room. Not only was it isolated, from
the others, but also it was well heated.
Since I had had a good sleep, I decided to get an early start. This
meant not waiting for breakfast spots to open up. As I started to leave,
I was joined by Mikel, the man I had walked with into Ponferrada. As
we went along, I learned that Mikel had walked the camino before,
back in 1999. He said that there were many pilgrims walking then since
it was un año Jacobeo (a year when the Saint's celebratory
day, July 25, occurs on a Sunday) and that it was often difficult to
find rooms in the albergues. I wouldn't want to be on the camino
with so many people because part of the attraction for me is the chance
to get away from crowds and to be alone with my own thoughts.
After about three hours we came to a small bar/restaurant which was
open. We went in for coffee and perhaps breakfast. The waitress was
no muy amable (not very pleasant) and obviously not happy about
working on a Sunday. We didn't even bother to order breakfast. After
a cup of coffee and a cigarette (for Mikel-not me!), we were on our
way. As we came out of the restaurant, we met two men and a woman who
were walking together. The woman, Fiona, was from England, while the
men were Spanish. One, Eduardo, was from Bilbao in the North, while
the other, Rafael, was from Valencia on the East coast. Rafael was pushing
his bicycle. When I asked what was wrong with the bike, he said nada
(nothing). At that point, I realized that he was walking for the company
— feminine company!
Ever since I entered Galicia, there have been hitos (milestones
or kilostones??) every 500 meters, each inscribed with the remaining
distance to Santiago. Ten kilometers before Portomarín, we came
across one that I felt was worthy of a photo — 100 K. At 25 K per
day, that meant I was four days away from Santiago. It is mind boggling
to think that the same distance would take only an hour and a half by
car!
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About 4:00 p.m., I spotted the whitewashed
town of Portomarín. It was on the hill on the opposite side of
the valley. I groaned because it meant that I would have to climb another
hill. Then I spotted a bridge and felt relieved. Beneath the bridge was
an embalsa (dam) which created a large lake that filled part of
the valley. As I crossed the bridge, I made the mistake of looking down.
It had to be at least 90 feet down!! My vertigo started to kick in. I
turned to head back when I saw Eduardo, Fiona, and Rafael coming down
the slope. I couldn't let them see me like this, so I turned back, stared
straight ahead, and walked briskly forward.
When I got to the other side, I came to a steep set of stairs that had
three tiers up to the town. Is my fate in life to always climb upwards?
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In the early evening I found
a bar that had Internet connections. I read my email and answered some
of the more urgent ones. Later I had a glass of wine with Christine, the
French woman. I decided that the bar wasn't the type of place that would
have good food, so I left to look for another place for dinner. I asked
Christine if she wanted to join me, but she politely declined citing other
plans. I found a bar that posted a pilgrim's menu. As I entered the dining
room, I saw Eduardo sitting by himself and he invited me to join him.
We had a pleasant meal and talked about the types of cuisine found in
various regions of Spain. I mentioned that I enjoyed the torta de Santiago
(almond cake) which was famous in Galicia. The waiter then informed me
that almost all tortas de Santiago sold in Spain were made right
there in Portomarín.
After dinner, Eduardo wanted to find a bar with a TV. He was a soccer
fanatic and his team, Bilbao, was playing that night. When I got back
to the albergue, I found a small group sitting around the dining
room table drinking wine. Not wanting to appear unsociable I joined them
for a few glasses. Somehow the discussion got around to the United States
and the various cities that the others knew about. They were surprised
to learn that I had once spent some time in San Francisco. I mentioned
that I was an aging hippie. This thought seemed to amuse them. Suddenly
a joint appeared from somewhere and started to circulate around the table.
I took the obligatory hit and passed it on. From then on I declined, using
my various medicines as an excuse. The real reason that I abstained was
that I didn't want to get stoned with strangers, in a strange place, and,
most importantly, in a strange country. I went to bed with a clear head
— I must be getting old! |
