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Conimbriga, Portugal

So Roland and I end up being the only two guests in the 29 bedroom hotel that reminds us of the movie “The Shining” – it is totally deserted, not another human being in sight. The electronic church bell counts the hours by the 15 minutes. Thank God again only until 21h00…. The hot water takes about ten minutes to appear – but eventually I sleep a sleep of the dead. Until – YES you have guessed it, the bells toll at 06h00!!! I suppose for a Sunday they make a special effort. In spite of double glazing, thick curtains and the sleep of the dead, I am wide awake at 06h00. It is the strangest, most mechanical sound.

Yesterday Roland told me about meeting this very very strange man from South Africa. (There I thought I was the only one…). This man eaves dropped on their conversation in a restaurant and then went on the attack about people (like them) who take taxis on the Caminho. Well, as we ventured across the road this morning to see if there is any chance of finding coffee in Shineville, there he was! By the looks of it he slept under a bridge, as there is only the one (forlorn) hotel in the village. He looked as if he was dragged backwards through a bramble bush. And as fate would have it, he walked straight up to us asking “are you walking the Caminho?” On answering “yes” his next question shoots at us “are you taking a taxi?”. How strange. He has obviously made it out to himself that it is the ultimate sin to take a taxi. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to answer him in my best German accent, avoiding any chance of SA fellowship. He just looked like a grumpy, miserable, rude old man!

Today I thought, if nothing else, I must get my coffee order right. One gets either a small espresso (of which I need about four to get going) or a very weak latte type tepid concoction. So, as the lady behind the counter was very friendly, I decided to explain in my best charades moves to show her that I want a STRONG (flexing my pathetic muscles) coffee with a little (crouching behind the counter to make myself look small) milk in a big (spreading my arms in a YMCA look) cup. “AAHHHH” she shouted – “Cafe NEGRO!!!! Negro negro negro” – she was so chuffed with herself. Now how could I not have thought of that? A cafe negro. Simple!

Of course – as I prayed for rain in the sweltering heat – it was raining on the Sabbath. I was very excited to try my Australian rain gear chosen with great care and concern by my friend Sally in Melbourne. After breakfast (just two negros for me) I slipped into my rain jacket with my little Japanese black number underneath and I was ready for the storms to hit. Poor Ronald had a poncho – thank goodness I did not go the ponco route, as his was blowing more over his head than it was keeping the rain out! He had all his time trying to keep the thing down, and then all the water ended up streaming into his boots. He really looked as if he had escaped from a Barber shop with their black cover still over him. (I also decided not to wear boots – very wise decision!). So according to the very knowledgeable man in the shop in Melbourne, my jacket was “breathable” as a result of some fabric, the name of which I cannot remember thanks to the copious amounts of red wine I consumed tonight. Well, after 15 minutes of walking in driving rain, I was more wet on the inside from gushing perspiration than I was on the outside from pouring rain. We had to stop so that I could remove the little Japanese number, but it was like walking in a little sauna! Fortunately the rain did not last long, but the extreme humidity continued.

We arrived in Zambujal just in time for the church service to start – the entire community was congregated in the main town square in front of the church, watching the poor Peregrinos struggling past. As we turned the corner leaving the square around a side ally, a squad of bloody mountain bikers came hurtling around the corner – straight into us! I (with the full village audience of Catholic church goers looking on) “screamed like a girl” (Oscar Pistorius could not have screamed like this if he tried to). The idiotic biker in front got the fright of his life, applied brakes with the result that the rest of his gang bundled up on his backside, and by only divine grace did we avert the mother of all pile-ups. With me scream still echoing through the town square, I composed myself with the necessary “bon dia” and “obbrigados” and walked on as if nothing had happened. Needless to say I had broken out in a hot flush that just about had me on fire, and first had to stop to drink some water and to compose myself again. I cannot imaging what the villagers thought of my holler.

The road we traveled was as beautiful as yesterday. The only difference was that I was now walking with someone else for the first time, which did change a few things. For one, I could not sing my favourite “Halleluja” and “FAK” songs at the top of my voice. (I had developed a little entertainment for myself, where I would sing these songs impersonating some famous people from my childhood. So I would sing “Voorwaarts Christen stryders (Onward Christian soldiers..) in the voice of people like Leonara Veenemans, Vicky Leandros, Ivan Rebroff, Nana Mouskourri, Lena Zavaroni and Heintjie. And then I would scream with laughter at my own brilliant renderings. Or I would do “Ek sien ‘n poort wyd ope staan” in the style of the later Bee Gees and I think I am the funniest person alive.

Second thing with walking with someone is that you do not stop every five seconds to take a picture. Even though you might see the beautiful moments, you think it not appropriate to stop all the time and take pictures of leaves and berries and things inane. (I missed that). Also, you would talk and miss out on moments, seeing and hearing small things that will only come to your attention when you are alone with your own footsteps. You would not stop as often or just go and lie on your back as you would when you are alone, as you inevitably are now in competition with the pace of the other person. Having said that, Ronald is a very nice person, we have great talks about life as a doctor in Sweden, his kids and life in general. The most noticeable difference however for me (considering the gallons of gas forming beers and coca-cola that one inevitably drinks) is that liberating feeling of letting rip with an earth shattering **** – no holds barred. It is just so inhibiting to have to hold it in, waiting for some noise or creating an artificial cough to let out tiny little *****, crushing some lose stones underfoot to hide the crackling little ***** that just need to escape. Then also – you have to make sure that he is walking in front, and that he is down wind for just in case. So, all in all, I do really prefer walking alone, all things considered.

At about 15 kms from our starting point, in the soft driving rain, the fragrance of the fig trees become a reality. Right in our path, we find a fig tree heaving with purple figs, ripe to bursting. I pick the first one and stuff the whole thing in my mouth – it is total bliss, a combination of such incredible taste and texture that explodes with each little seed in my mouth. I squash one after the other in my mouth, my lips sticky with the white milk, but the insatiable sensation in my mouth with each bite is unforgettable, forever tattooed on my senses.

We made it to Conimbriga, a national heritage site with the most incredible Roman ruins. Some exquisite mosaic work the likes of which I have never seen before, dating back to 1 AD. The funny thing was – we trekked down in the rain with our backpacks to the entrance, where the attendant told us that we cannot enter without tickets. The tickets are given for free at the ticket office, which is way on the other side of the excavations, but we need to go and get one before we can enter. So we had to trek back to this MASSIVE ticket office, where we got a free ticket to enter the site. (In their defense, we did get a stamp for our Compastella).

The second part of the day was humid, no rain, but tiring.
Ronaldo was really good company in that we hardly spoke at all, but had nice talks when we did. He was also as tired as I was, so we walked t a gentle pace. We stopped for a bite in a very small village, and was offered another stamp with our ice cold Super Bock beers. We decided to not go all the way to Coimbra, but to stop off at Palheira where there was a guest house. And just as you thought I did not get lost the whole day – well hell yes. We got completely lost between the two of us. After numerous attempts we found the guest House, the most ostentatious, outrageously over the top palace like place that I have ever seen. The owner collects espresso cups and literally has hundreds and hundreds of them. It is not cheap, and not a pilgrim-like place at all. Do I care – no sir! At this point I need a bed and a bath, which they offer at 35 euro. There is nothing for miles around, and the house is on the edge of Coimbra, directly on top of the busiest highway. We ask the owner if we could get food anywhere, and he offers to take us to the nearest supermarket. (There was some voting happening in Portugal today, so everything was closed). At 19h00 we leave – and he drops us off at a massive shopping center! We are completely stunned, and he says he will pick us up in an hour again. So we find a supermarket, buy some chicken, salad, potatoes and wine, have a quick beer and at 20h15 we are back at the guest house to enjoy our meal (sadly possibly the best I have had in Portugal thus far…).

Tomorrow is a short walk (10 km’s) to Coimbra, and I hope to have a rest day. I have walked almost 210 km’s in seven days. It has been an incredible experience, some of it really really tough. Some of it so beautiful, some terrible. I go to bed with a contented heart.

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