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Curia, Portugal

Die ooms drink soetwyn om die dag te begin, die tannies kortkoppies koffie. Die dou skitter op die grasspriete terwyl die voëls luidkeels die nuwe dag aankondig. Twee tannies net buite die dorp spreek my ernstig aan omdat ek ‘n kortmou hemp aan het op die koel oggend, ek wuif joviaal en lag saam met hulle. In Anadia kry ek my koffie reg – warm en sterk. Danksy die vriendelik man in die Albergue gisteraand wat dit vir my neergeskryf het (en my wasgoed vir my gewas het!)

Al langs die pad loop ek Stink Afrikaners, Salie, Hanekamme. Ranonkels en Dalias raak, selfs Strelitzias en Heide. Om een of ander rede verbaas dit my want dit is so asof dit “ons” blomme is en nie hier hoort nie.

Last night after an amazing supper (detail of which I will have to spare you due to some sensitive readers) something went horribly wrong with my hip – I could almost not get up from the table. Of course everyone in the restaurant must have thought that I am drunk! (Well there was that as well, I was after all in Portugal’s best wine producing area!) But, it was not the reason for my excruciatingly sore hip!!! I literally stumbled to my room (thank goodness I did not venture into town but chose the restaurant closest to the Albergue). I tried every stretch that I can remember from my yoga and pilates days, meditating, praying, swearing, ignoring. TransAct patch, two myprodols. Nothing helped – I saw visions of a hip replacement in a Portuguese hospital where no one speaks english. The pain would not go away – I was not sure if it was a muscle, a pinched nerve or the devil poking me with a red hot poker because of what I ate for supper. (Only Helen de Pinho will know, she recommended it…). Is it not astounding how the mind plays tricks when the lights are out. Because now I was convinced that I will not be able to walk in the morning, that they will have to airlift me to a hospital, that the whole caminho was over and that I will have to go home. At about 04h00 I dozed off in a feverish nightmare all of my own making. I woke up just before 08h00 and could feel that the pain had subsided, but I could only walk with a definite limp. Image limping the rest of the 300 km to Santiago? Well, legend has it that some people have done the pilgrimage on their knees… Somehow, I don’t think so.

Because of the sore hip last night I could not climp the stairs to the very elaborate washing line contraption that was under a roof opposite my room – rows and rows of washing lines on pullies. So now – my socks (two of the three that had their first wash in days) and underpants were very damp. And no hairdryer (that saved me last time). So I do my little jig again – pull the socks over my hands and start waving my arms madly. (If anyone should see me…). Then the underpants – after about ten minutes of waving about, a back spasm and being totally out of breath I decide what the hell – if my feet and ****** must rot so be it.

The road today is varied between horrific industrial parks (felt like walking through Paarden Island to Montagu Gardens and back to Atlantis). Then, every now and then a little village and a stroll through more eucalyptus forests. Not another Pilgrim in site, and I begin to wonder for how long it will still be this quiet. I absolutely love spending an entire day all by myself (yes I can also hear another song coming on…). The walking is a meditation – even though I have now become more accustomed to finding the yellow arrows, and hardly ever look at Mr. Brierly (thank goodness). I find that I can at times totally disappear in the rythm of my footsteps. I see an endless hill ahead, and before I know it it is behind me. The backpack seems to be getting lighter (must be all the hair product being used..) and at times I honestly don’t feel it on my back. I am most grateful that my feet are fine. I have a feeling that the unwashed socks play a big part in this.

The mind has a life of its own. The most amazing memories (yes and halleluja songs) are triggered by smells and sounds and sights. I have to giggle at times at the absurdity of songs that spring into my head as I see or hear or smell something.

Agueda where I am sitting now, seems to be a more affluent town with a music conservatory. All the inner city streets are covered with umbrellas, I have no idea what this is about, and no one can tell me. Oh well, there is always google – “Every July, as part of the Agitagueda art festival, hundreds of umbrellas are hung over promenades in the streets of Aguenda. The beautiful tradition only started 3 years ago, but had already earned world fame for the place”. There. It is the most striking splash of colour, filtering the sun to create a gentle, dappled splash of colourful shades between rays of sun.

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