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Póvoa de Varzim, Portugal

I suppose the journey should have some purpose – enough people have asked (and others assumed) why I am doing this. As I said before – time out! Time alone to just be, get up and go as I want, when I want, where I want, how I want. Not structured by a bloody diary or clock, no rushing to meetings and listening to ****. There is that, but also to contemplate some things. I want to be more kind, less critical, less grumpy, less opinionated, more patient. (I can just see some of my friends jumping up and down saying “yes yes yes”. I know who you are…) Tall order me thinks, I might have to turn around in Santiago and walk all uthe way back to Lisbon. Last night Vila do Conde appear just in time before every muscle, tendon, hamstring and ligament pack up. Walking over the bridge that spans another graceful river, I spot the first Hostel and make a bee-line for it. The wonderful thing about this route is that the hostels always have rooms, but I do dread the thougth dragging myself up the stairs that should they be full I would have to walk even a few steps further. There is a room, private halleluja, with a bathroom. I can hear in the next room that there are other travellers. Loud and clear. I sneak past into my room, throw down my backpack and collapse on the bed. Immediately I remember that I had forgotten my cellphone charger in Porto, so I get up and go in search of a charger. With helpful instructions from the lady at the reception desk, I still take foverer to find the shop. (Maybe I should add to my wishlist to actually be able to LISTEN to instructions and follow them…). Back at the hostel, the little group (I am not going to mention nationalities) are still at it – at the top of their voices! Even behind my closed door and bathroom door, I hear every word they say. The room has one of those little baths that one often finds in Europe, without a plug. (I had actually thougth of bringing one). I improvise with a plastic bag and a shampoo bottle, fill the bath with hot water and in my best yogi pose actually manage to soak up the wonderful feeling through my aching body. I decide to try and do the social thing and go for a glass of wine in the lounge after my bath. Within minutes I am irritated by the chatter. At least we agree on one thing: Brierly SUCKS! Everyone gets lost using him, and we have a good laugh about his use of language that makes absolutely no sense. I have my usual little rant, and when one woman responds with “oh well you know, on the way (putting extra emphasis on the wwwaaaayyyyy) one does not really need a guide, look here we all are” I decide I’d better go before she starts singing “kumbaya my lord..” Each to his own, but I just realise that we are all on different paths. Literally for me most of the time thanks to my misunderstanding of the guide. This morning at breakfast I try again, but after hearing about the grandchildren who are the only caucasian children in the school and how everything is taught in Spanish and English, how the one’s husband was arrested for selling two joints and got two years in prison (long time ago) and how she would help the needy but only those who are really needy and not spending their money on drugs, I swallow the dreadful coffee and get up to go, making sure that I spend enough time in my room so that they get a long headstart. Leaving town, the walk starts along the river under the watchful eye of the nuns of Santa Clara from the majestic convent above. I note with interest that the windows – which are way above the reach of any person other than Spiderman perhaps – are all covered with burglar bars. I cannot help but think if maybe some of the nuns jumped out of their windows… The walk is beautiful. I very quickly notice that today, October 16th, is national ploughing day in Portugal. Every single farmer, his wife and his dog (this area seem to not have them on chains) are out ploughing. And with the ploughing, they are fertilizing the soil. Only about ten miniutes out of Vila do Condo, the smell hits me. Now I spent a lot of my childhood with pigs and cows and chickens, I know manure of all sorts very well. My adult life has been blessed with looking after someone with dementia for almost a year. I know ****. THIS **** I have never encountered. It is obviously dairy farming area, the maize has been harvested (halleuja) and these fields are now ploughed. And the manure is being activated. Or whatever it is that they do to it, but let me tell you, it is unreal. At one point the smell is SO bad, that I actually feel myself gagging. (Thanks to an op a few years ago to my stomach I cannot vomit). I literally break out in a cold sweat and have to sit down under a tree. I try to drink water, but it tastes of manure. I decide to escape into a coffee shop, but here the flies hang about anaesthetized by the smell – they can hardly flap their wings, hovering above the table like zombies.I now realise that the pong is so bad that even the flies escaped. I can feel myself turning green around the jowls. Leaving the coffee shop, the smell hits me again like a warm, damp sack cloth. And this it the theme for the rest of the day. At one point I pass a particularly large dairy farm, where I see on the boards that it is compulsory to wear a gas mask! (See photograph – I told you it was bad!) I am now beginning to think that if one could use this gas output, you could replace ESKOM! A whole country could be lit up on this gas! (I read a few years ago that seeing that so many more people in the East are not eating meat, the amount of CO2 gas produced by cows is now at an alarming rate, and it has an impact on the ozone. I laughed at the time, little did I know….) In the next little village, I have the fortunate pleasure of bumping into my hostel compatriots. I exchange a few pleasantries, and make my way ahead. (I do feel bad about this – thinking that I should be more pleasant and share stories. Fact is – I have absolutely no desire to do so.) The walk is magic. By now my lungs and intestines have adapted to the smell, which at the slightest whisp of wind would make it way to my nose again. Instead I choose to look at the most beautiful packed stone walls, and the interesting phenomena of planting vineyard trellises all along the fields. (See the photographs). The farming community are out in full force, and as I discovered that Fridays are also housecleaning day, the walk is alive with people and activity. I experience the most endearing moments of farmers on tractors giving me the most genuine smiles. I only need to stand still for a few moments and someone will wave and indicate the way to Santiago. In Rates my body tells me it is time to take a break. A sign for a cafe appears, and I make a beeline for the shade. (Even though the day started out slightly cloudy, it is now sunny and hot). I decide not to take the meal of the day (pork and patata bravas – what else?) and only have a toast. What appears is truly the farmers delight – THE thickest two slices of bread with gooey melty cheese and ham. I order to coke to swallow all that done. No sooner had I started writing my blog, but who would appear – the two from the hostel. Hell, I just cannot get away from them. I decide to be nice (it takes a lot of energy) and actually spend about an hour chatting to them. At that moment, I decide that it is imperative that I leave the popular route for the coastal route. Now Comrade Brierly talks highly about the route, but does not actually give any detail on it. I try to google it, but there is very little information. I decide to walk back to one of the Albergues in town which seems to be a hub of information, anything to not be followed by the troopers. (Sad, I know). We say our “bom caminho’s” and i go west (that is what I think) and they go north. I dread that I am going to regret this decision. As much as Brierly irritated me, at least there was SOMEthing to go by at times. But hey – I am not one for following the crowd. (Famous last words). The very friendly waittress looks baffled when I ask her, eventually she asks one of the lunchtime crowd, who by now have been there for hours and
had several beers. He says something about “Igreja centro”. I will walk down to the church in the centre of town. There is no one at the Albergue, other than a man from Eastern origin listening to what seems like Oriental Opera on his cellphone, smoking a roly. He has no idea about the coastal route (or much else for that matter, the ***** in me). I walk down to the church, and remember that I saw something earlier on about “Caminho Costa”. Thinking that half of Portugal are called “Costa”, I thought not more. Then it dawned on me that those signs might have meant “coast”. At the “museo ethnography” – almost every town has one – I stop to ask the man behind the counter. On enquiting if he speaks english, he very enhusiastically says “YES”. I immediately realise that he is a person with different abilties. My heart sinks. He leaves the papers he was working with, and beckons me outside. Across the road, down a pathway, and I think “where is this going?”. He very patiently walks with me to the end of the village, where he explains the route to me, assuring me that there are waymarks that say “caminho costa”. I am so geniunely touched by his kindness that I don’t give a toss if he knew what he was talking about or not, I just take his advice and walk! To my great surprise, the way is clearly en regularly marked. I walk, and walk, and walk. No sign of life other than more and more farmers and their wives ploughing and fertilizing. I take no note of the smell. I walk. The scenary is breathtaking – pun intended. I walk. I rest, I walk. There is not a sign of an Albergue in site, just one yellow arrow after the other. Eventually I take a rest in the greenest of green fields. But I am aware that the sun would be setting and that I would need to get to an Albergue. I walk. At one point (I have not been walking for almost eight hours) I begin to smell the ocean. Then I see it in the distance. In a moment of horror I think that I am seeing mirages- maybe all the cowpoo stench affected my brain. Maybe I am dehydrated and hallucinating. I walk. I can hear the highway traffic in the distance, knowing that there is a big highway right next to the coast. Suddenly I am not sure – are my ears ringing or is that really traffic I am hearing. At least I have my passport with me should I pass out and die here in the eucalyptus forrest. Thanks to my dear friend Sally I have a silk liner that I could sleep in, and longjohns and a thermal vest made in Japan from some magic fabric, so if I have to sleep outside tonight I might not freeze to death. On the other hand, I have seen pictures of the wild boar that roam these parts of the forrest – I cannot imagine anything worse than waking up in the middle of the night with a wild boar sniffing me up. No, I have to continue. (Serves you bloody right for always wanting to do your own bloody thing. Why can’t you just be normal like other people? Clever ass. Self talk is great at this point). Then – as is the case always in my screwed up head, a Halleluja song would worm its way into my head – “moet ek gaan met lee hande, moet ek so my heer ontmoet?”. I am really losing it. The next thing, I am on the highway. It looks miles away from anything. Not it is not. I see a garage. I walk like a man possessed. I almost shout “SUPER BOCK” at the poor man behind the counter. I gulp it down like a desperate alcoholic. They have wifi – I am eight minutes walk away from the youth hostel. The youth hostel is massive! And there are three of us in the entire building – each with our own wing. I have a view across the estuary, people cycling and walking their dogs along the promenade. No cars, church bells, noisy pilgrims. Bliss. Total bliss. I made it. And I am exactly where I wanted to be – on the coast, alone.

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