My neck was still sore. I wondered whether it was my body manifesting my "end of trip whines." The pain seemed to have started right after I realized that our trip was almost complete. I tried to catch my subconscious in its little tricks, telling it that I didn't need for this trip to "go badly" in order for me to be OK to leave it at the end. I'm not sure it was listening.
In the spirit of "praise Allah but tie up your camel," I also put some of Cathleen's magical Arnica lotion on it.
We delighted when the early morning sun shifted to fog. Maybe our 18.5 km walk of more undulating hills would be less painful than the previous day's!
We walked down the highway to Arzua and found a café for breakfast. Inside, Cathleen pointed out the big wheels of Rosca Gallega bread and joked, "didn't you say you were going to tie one onto your pack today?" Instead, we bought a much more manageable baguette. The shop even had espresso decaf, and he gave us some free cake/bread! The wall sported a large mural of a statue of a lady holding something, which we passed on our way to the church. She was representing the local Arzua cheese.
We found our way to the church of Arzua. The front doors were open! But the inner doors were closed. We stood there a moment, just long enough for a local man to walk past us and open a small side door and go inside. So we followed him. There were about a half dozen people inside praying, so we quietly got our sello and just stood at the back for a while.
The Camino arrows went past the church, so we were on the path. Not long after, Cathleen exclaimed "Nuns!"
There were several nuns in all white offering a sello outside their convent. I was glad that our previous sello was the church and not a bar. ;) Cathleen asked for a photo and the nuns asked her to email the photo to them. One nun wanted to practice her English. She asked us about our trip, and her eyes went wide when I answered her question about my luggage with, "Eso es todo" (this is all of it). So I decided it must be time to attach my "Eso es todo" sticker to my pack. ;)
I had not received any negative comments about my pack on the Primitvo. Most people who cared just asked directly and were impressed that I was carrying under 5 kg. However, on the Frances, people seemed much more concerned with "real pilgrims" (who had huge packs) versus "tourists" (who shipped their luggage) and the like. I heard a couple stories of pilgrims getting sniped at and insulted by other judgmental pilgrims. Our chatty British companion from San Romao (who, for the record, was well over 60) had it happen to him.
I was upset to hear about one albergue turning away a woman because they suspected that she did not carry her own bag that day (they were wrong, but that was beside the point). I knew many elderly and some infirm people could not walk the Camino unless they traveled short distances each day and shipped their packs. Yet they felt the spiritual call to walk it. Were they not "real pilgrims"??!!
Almost in answer to my thoughts, I passed an elderly pilgrim who had his pack rigged up on a bicycle trailer to pull on a single pole behind him. Then an even more elderly local woman wished me Buen Camino.
The path was quiet and empty as it meandered through the woods. I was in my wheelhouse, on undulating hills in cool weather. The pain in my neck had finally subsided.
I thought about the history of pilgrims on the Camino. Historically, it was only the very poor and the criminals (who were given the Camino instead of a jail sentence), who had to walk with their packs and stay in albergues. Anyone who could afford it rode horses, or at least had them for their gear, and stayed in hotels. In fact, one can still get a Compostela if one does the Camino by horse. Or the modern horse: the bicycle.
I had actually noticed many cyclists over the past couple days, whereas I didn't recall seeing any for most of the trip
Just then I passed a man who had been swinging his poles threateningly at the poor confused dogs beside the path. They stood and stared with wagging tails as I walked by. He asked me if I was Italian, and seemed dejected that I was not. I wished him Buen Camino and pushed on. For the next few minutes, as I pulled farther ahead, I could still hear him yapping loudly to anyone and no-one.
Up ahead, I saw a man holding a folded paper, asking a pilgrim ahead of me something. I wondered if he was a vendor or a lost pilgrim waving his map around in hopes of help with directions. I stopped and he showed me a flyer for a bar, complete with photos of almost every typical Gallegan dish. Something I wished I'd had two weeks ago!
He said, "English? One bar, two bars, free bar!" while pointing the map. At which I understood him to mean that the third one was his bar. Then he asked in Spanish, "can I ask you a question? Is it 'free' bar' or 'three' bar?" I said, "Three. Free means you no pay!" He laughed and groaned. I guessed that he had been saying "free bar" all day. But I got most interested when he flipped the brochure over and showed me "cervesa artisanal." Sold. Not that Spain's ubiquitous Estrella Gallega was bad, but it was just your basic lager, and I was getting tired of it.
I counted the bars I passed, and arrived at Casa de Dolores, as promised. The artisanal beer bottles were hanging everywhere. Pilgrims were writing their names and the date on them to leave in the collection. They had also set up chairs in the little stream, which would have been heaven on a hot day like the day before.
I waved the flyer at the owner: "good for selling. It works!" (That's as good as my Spanish could get me.) He shrugged and waved his hand like "so-so." Lol. I guessed that everyone was buying beer, but no one was buying food. Even though it was almost noon, and I had seen pilgrims eating at the two other bars. But maybe that is where they all ate! Even though I had had full intentions of eating lunch there, I wasn't very hungry, so I munched on my dubious cheese while I sipped my beer in the garden. For the first time I was legitimately concerned about the health value of my cheese. It was weirdly slimy. I also had some of my pack berries. I had also been determined to eat up the food I had in my pack. I refused to walk into Santiago carrying the food I brought from Canada!! By the way, the freeze dried blueberries were amazing!! Props to AlpineAire Natural High brand. (https://www.amazon.com/Katadyn-AlpineAire-Organic-Blueberries/dp/B00ZG9NR6Y)
The beer was actually really good. I tried to figure out whether I could carry two bottles to our hotel that evening. With 11 km left to go, I decided against it. But I seriously considered it!!
Since I was a slow drinker, I spent nearly an hour there! But I loved it. Great patio and great beer. The owner came by and took my photo. I wondered whether it would show up on their website. I added my bottle to the wall.
On the road again at noon, I wished I could have stayed at Casa de Dolores all afternoon. The fog had lifted and the sun was popping out, but it was still cool, particularly in the shaded path.
In one section, the party was lined on both sides with flowers. I passed two women who were enthralled with the flowers.
I stopped in at Casa Verde in Sabceda to use their facilities, and the place was like party central in some tropical tourist area like Mexico or Hawaii. Graffiti all over the bathroom walls, hundreds of t-shirts hanging from the ceiling, and a dozen pilgrims at the bar doing shots. One of the graffiti said, "Welcome to the alcoholic's Camino."
Just after leaving Casa Verde, I ended up in a log jam of pilgrims, right behind one woman who was singing to herself. I thought, yes, this is more like what I expected the Camino Frances to be like! I could feel my blood pressure rising, and walked faster to get out of earshot.
Fortunately, I was already watching my GPS for the upcoming turnoff for O Pino. When I reached the pin for the turnoff on my map, I laughed because the sign on the road said "Cabo." Yep, that's pretty much what I was leaving there!
I knew that the two women I had passed earlier were about 20 m behind me chatting and not paying attention to the trail, and would likely follow me right off the Camino, which they did. So I turned around and gestured, "you: that way; me: this way." They looked startled, then understood and laughed sheepishly. After that, I was on my own.
The sun was out, and I had left the shade of the treed path for the glare of cement. Yet, it still was not too bad, since there was wind. I went through a small town, then fields, then it seemed I was on gravel logging roads through a man-made forest.
I only had one hiccup. It was when my GPS told me to walk down a highway that was still in the very early stages of construction. Instead, I turned left and walked on a logging road parallel to it, hoping that I could not need to cross the chasm they were cutting through the hillside!
Fortunately, the route I picked ended on cement, and that had a bridge over the chasm. Then I was on gravel logging roads again, going down hills then up hills, several times in series, in a bee-line for our hotel. I actually loved the silence and solitude, after the last couple days on the Frances, and particularly the last half hour of noisy crowds. It was like being back on the Primitvo again.
I wondered how Cathleen would do in this section. I had an umbrella for the heat, food and water, healthy feet, and was very comfortable with the GPS. I knew she didn't pack any food. I figured she probably had water, but was not convinced she would take off her pack to drink it. Same with reapplying her sun tan lotion. (Spoiler: she didn't take off her pack.)
The road finally popped out onto the highway, and I could see a few houses and a tabacco store (which turned out to also be a bar). I couldn't figure out how to get to the hotel, so I asked the lady in the bar-tabac. She said it was right behind the white house across the street. Sure enough, a little driveway was there, and I followed it to a car stopped in the driveway. A woman got out and we determined that she was the owner, and I the guest. I checked in.
http://omuinodepena.com/en/home
After a little rest, I decided to check out the hotel, which is an old mill. I stepped out into the hallway, and almost fell over a big yellow lab. The host came out of his office and told me that if I wanted to take a little walk, there was an interpretive trail out along the creek (Rio Mera) and it led to a swimming hole about 1.5 km later.
"The dog will take you!" He proclaimed, at which the big yellow dog, Trotsky, jumped up and headed to the door. The little black scotty dog, Elliott, scurried after him.
They led me the entire way. When they got a little bit ahead of me, they looked back and waited, or took a quick dip in the creek. The overgrown trail was dotted with little signs explaining the local trees. There were ruins of a couple stone houses as well. It was very very cool. (Later I asked, and these were 3 of 7 old mills.)
Finally, the path led to a large city park, replete with picnic tables, BBQs, and a kids playground. There was also a consession building, but it was closed.
Two men emerged from the river bank (this was the Rio Tambre) with towels, so I figured that was the location of the swimming hole. They looked at me a little suspiciously, but waved "hola." Suddenly realizing I was completely alone, I made it clear with my body language that "my dogs are with me," just in case the guys got any ideas, but they simply left. I dipped in to the shallow concrete swimming hole, and the dogs waited around. When I got out, my feet dried almost instantly.
Finally, it was time to go back, but I couldn't see Elliott. Trotsky seemed non-plussed, and sauntered back with me. On the way back, I nearly cried because I was living my dream. It gave me hope that I too could have a place like this for my own, that it was all very possible. When we got back, Elliott was already there and barked at me. "It's ME silly!" I told him. But he didn't stop until I opened the door to the hotel. Maybe he was just announcing that I was back.
Not minutes later, Cathleen appeared. "Officially my worst day of the trip!" She announced, eyes brimming with tears. Her feet hurt on the gravel road, then she got barked at by a dog, and yelled at by two local men (based on her story, I think she was trespassing on their private property). She ran when she thought they might follow her and beat her up.
She felt like every car on the road was "judging" her and giving her nasty looks. Then at the tobacco shop across from our hotel, she was upset that the women "didn't speak English!" and felt they were mean and rude to her when she tried to buy cigarettes.
It was all so amazing to me, how we could have had such different experiences!! Walking along the same route to the same destination... Even, in some cases, interacting with the exact same people. I guess that is a great metaphor for life.
After telling me all her stories of woes, I asked her whether the afternoon's experiences could have been her version of the "end of trip whines." Like, how my neck was expressing that for me in the morning, trying to make the trip "bad," so I wouldn't miss it when it ended; I suggested that maybe this afternoon was serving that purpose for her. She replied, "I don't want to talk right now." And left the room. Lol.
Good thing I didn't remind her how it was a good thing she was "never afraid of anything," as she had been trying to convince me this entire trip. I think that would have been too much. ;) It seemed fairly obvious to me that she had been very nervous about going off the official Camino Frances to cut across to the hotel, because there would be no markers, and I'd be far ahead of her, so she would have to rely on the map and GPS on her own. I believe it was this, and perhaps the end-of-Camino "whines," that were behind her manifesting a very unpleasant experience. I joked to myself, now she could be annoyed at me too, and not miss me either. ;)
We toured the on-site museum and discovered they sold the tarot cards that Cathleen was gifted in Grandas! The host said that his football mate, Javier, drew them. What were the chances?!?! So I got my own set, plus a Camino-themed "snakes and ladders" type game that was made by the same man. (www.ideasperegrinas.es)
We were the only guests in the hotel, and both we and the host beamed at the quiet.
We had a fantastic chef quality multicourse "tasting" dinner. Every bite was orgasmic. The photos I took just didn't do it justice. There were seven courses of mostly small bites of amazingness: courgette soup, a smoked local cheese, croquettes with octopus and black garlic, scallops, Lebanese "falafels" with tahini, Galician steak with tapioca and Padron peppers from the garden, a toffee bread pudding... Thinking back to an older dream I had, when I was in chef school, of running a gourmet B&B (before I realized that meant I had to deal with people lol), I marveled at how perfectly the place matched what I would have done.
Cathleen locked herself in the washroom.
When she came out, I wanted to go to bed, but she wanted me to plot the Camino Frances route on our HERE maps, and guarantees about which routes would not have any gravel roads. I was really grumpy about it all, but trying to be understanding. She was scared of walking with the GPS. Her feet looked like she had dipped them in boiling water. The trip was soon ending, and while I was going back to an environment not so different from where we were, she was going back to a very ill husband, potential legal trouble with a neighbor, and two children under 10, one of whom was autistic.
She was still muttering at her phone when I fell asleep.
I have stayed at this place twice on two different Caminos and it is everything you say, and more. Excellent food, and lovely hosts. For those who don't want to hike from the Camino, they will come and pick you up.
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