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Poio, Spain

My day starts with being woken up by the people in the room next to mine. I assume that it is time to get up, which I do, only to realise that it is 03h19 in the morning. I go back to bed, pretend that I did not hear their singing, banging, laughing, shoving the furniture around, obviously very drunk. The more I try to stay calm and go back to sleep – the more noise they make. Again, the walls are paper thin. And they are exceptionally loud. I get up. There are three of them (men/boys), their door open, having a whale of a time. Before I could say a word, they fall silent at the sight of me. Only when I am back in my own room do I realise that they must have gotten the fright of their lives with me in my underwear, hair wild like that of a madmen appearing in the open door. When I ask them in my most polite but bedonnerde voice what the hell they think they are doing at this godforsaken hour of the morning, they cringe, apologise and become meak as mice. A good nights’ sleep will not be my privilege on this trip. Eventually, when my heartbeat has gone back to normal and after several deep breathing exercises, I fall asleep again. When I wake up again just before 8, the temptation is huge to start making the same type of racket, but I decide to be the better person. I regret it now.

At breakfast, I bump into the Dutch couple again who stayed in the same hotel the night before. They are really nice, and I ask them to join me for breakfast. Before I know it, we have talked so much that it is 11h45 already. Check out is at 12h00, and I have 25 kms to get done! Of course, since it is weekend, it is raining as it had done for the past three weekends. I say goodbye to the Dutch, pack up, and head out in the rain, armed with my umbrella. Just before I leave town, I bump into them again. We are now Facebook friends and had a good time together. They will be staying in Pontevedra for another day.

I am in two minds about which route to take – the Variante Espiritual sounds wonderful, but doing a constant steep uphill for 8 (some say 10 – who knows) kilometers in the pouring rain sounds very daunting. Plus – there is a part of this route that goes by sea, and if the sailor is not sailing (again – who knows, no one can tell for sure) it is an extra 28 kms to walk. (The sea route is part of the original Caminho, as apparently it is the route that in 44 AD was crossed with the remains of St. James. (Led by an angel and guided by a star no less. I wonder what happened to that angel and the star when I was looking for them! Obviously I am not important enough!). If I cannot take the boat, I actually do have enough time to do the extra walk, but somehow the weather and the hills are giving me second thoughts.

As routes out of cities go, the one out of Pontevedra is painless, and very soon I am on country lanes. It seems that more doors and windows are open, which I can only assume is because the worst heat seems to be over. People are out walking, cycling, gardening, and of course the women are cleaning. (I think the average Portuguese and Spanish home must be incredibly clean – as far as I walk I see women cleaning and smell the fresh smell of cleaning detergents). Mops and brooms and buckets and dusters are at every back door, well used.

In Poio, the rain is pelting down. I decide to visit the convent, only to find out that they are having lunch from 10h00 to 16h30. (I am NOT joking – someone comes to answer the bell, tells my that I can come back at 16h30 after lunch. So much for Catholic hospitality to poor pilgrims). Poio is on the coast of one the estuaries, but the rain is now relentless, and I literally walk from pub to church to busstop. Of course I have to eat or drink something at every pub, so it could end up being a very long 8kms up the hill…. However, I am determined. (Why, I don’t know). Every time the rain lets up a little but, I am stoically at it again. My feet are now swishing with wet, it is impossible to avoid the puddles. And then suddenly I am in Combarro, an unexpected surprise of a little fishing village. A group of youngsters ask me if I will take their pic, and I ask them to return the favour. All along the water are these tiny little houses, most of them facing away from the water. I read in one of the signs that they belonged to peasants, not fishermen. The absolute peace and quiet seems as if the world has forgotten about this village – as if no tourist had ever discovered this little gem. There are seven symbolic crosses in the little town, dating back to pagan times. They have Christ on the one side of the crucifix and that of the Virgin Mary on the other side, facing the sea. These crucifixes were to christianise the pagan people.

From Comberra the 8km uphill starts. It sounds much worse than it actually is, but nevertheless I sweat a sweat of a thousand rugby players. (I heard we lost today. Too bad). The view across the estuary is mind blowing. At the top, I do a little jig – very very proud of myself. The rest of the road is peanuts in comparison – the downhill is quite wet and slippery, but again beautiful. Ancient stone walls covered in thick moss, trees invaded with ivy and ferns, stream trickling faster than I can walk, little bridges. And birds excuberantly thankful for the rain. The forest is washed clean, the green shining greener than the camera can capture.

And then, suddenly Combarro appears – all of a huge monastery, two pubs and a few houses. I read that there is accommodation at the monastery (actually a convent) and that there is an Albergue. I make a beeline for the convent – thought it might be interesting to spend a night with the nuns. The info office is closed, but the little curio shop is open. A very friendly lady behind the counter confirms with a huge smile that she speaks NO english. Nada. I mime (I have become very good at this…) that I need a room to sleep for one person for one night. With a barrage of Spanish from here I deduce that she will call someone. There is an interesting bell system – she presses three short rings on the bell (on one side of the counter), and a few seconds later the phone rings on the other side of the counter. She trotters (that is what it looked like) off with a big smile, and has a long conversation to someone on the other side of the phone. She puts the phone down, and with a big smile trotters over to the bell system again. This time, she presses two short and one long bell. Seconds later, the phone rings again. So back she trotters, all the time keeping me in her watch – smiling, and answers. Exasperated she explains what I can figure out to be that there is a man who is looking for a bed. Once again, she trotters back to the bells, again three short rings. Back to the phone. Now she is getting a bit tired of the game – and I am laughing out loud. Eventually, I am told (with loads of Spanish and sign language) that all is well, I must go up to the stairs. I load my pack again and make my way up the stairs of the convent…. When I get to the landing, there are two doors, and two bells. I have no idea what to do. Well, I decide, if it is not the one it is the other. So I press the one. I hear a series of doors opening, closing, opening, closing, and the next thing a nun appears. I have seen “The Sound of Music” enough times to know exactly how Julie Andrews felt when that nun opened the door to her in the movie. So there I stood. Marie with a wet backpack, a huge wee and a desperate need to just lie down.

This poor nun was none the wiser. (Pun intended). She spoke zero english, and started in a barrage of Spanish to tell me GOD knows what. I just stood there, thinking by myself that if she carries on any longer, I am going to pee in my pants. What I gather, after all that which by now has taken the better part of an hour of this pilgrims’ precious time, it that there is no room at the inn. Just as well I was not pregnant with Jesus.

But, apparently there is an Albergue about 700 meters further, that I cannot find for the life of me. After 25 kms of walking, the last thing I want
to do is walk around looking for something. Anything, for that matter. Eventually I find the albergue thanks to the one person that is actually out on the street – about a kilometer out of town. I get there, and it is completely shut down, as most things are in small villages – shutters down, locked up. I walk around the place a few times, knock, nothing. There are about fifteen cars parked outside, so there is life. I just don’t know where this life would be hiding. So eventually, I realise that I will have to walk back to the village. Which I do with a song in my heart – of course I will not admit to the title of the song. In the first pub, I ask for help (with sign language and a very sad ass expression on my face). A really friendly man understands, and shows me to just hang on. He picks up the phone, has a conversation and tells me to go back to the Albergue, someone will meet me there in ten minutes. Like a “steeks” donkey I walk back, and wait. A lady with teeth that looks as if they belong to someone else arrives, and starts having a very extroverted conversation with me. The more I say that I do not understand a word (and just as well for her I had a pee on the way), she carries on. We just do not seem to meet half way. Eventually another man arrives (his teeth are even more funny) – he makes it very clear that he speaks even less english. (And judging by the expression on his face he hates the english. Something of a war long ago me thinks, like two or more centuries ago). By the grace of God another (friendlier and with normal teeth) man appears, who is willing to help. With google translate. My heart sinks… His phone looks as if it was in the war that ****** of the other gentleman. The screen is not only shattered, most of it is actually missing. After a very long typing session and much back spacing, it turns out the hostel is doubling up as a club house for hunters, who while the friendly one is typing, are arriving in there hordes. All in uniform with moerse big shotguns and dogs barking madly in little trailers behind the cars.

Within minutes, I am surrounded by more testosterone than I have felt in my national service days. (Ok well then again, I was in the navy…). There are at least fourty men, a hundred dogs, and me. I am completely startled – and they are all over my Albergue where I just wanted to take of my clothes, have a shower and fall dead on the bed. And there are only two rooms – the bedroom (with more bunkbeds than I can count) and the main room. I clear the latter, and they take over. For the next hour and a half, I am trapped behind the closed door listening to their conversation. Now I have always been astounded at how golfers and rugby players can spend hours and hours repeating by conversation every single move/hit/catch/putt in their game – it seems to be the same with hunters. (And apparently – they only shot three boar). So there I am, having to listen to a cackle of Spanish men going over their hunt, with every detail of every sound that every pig made, It is just “porca porca porca porca”. And the way they talk – I actually recorded some of it from behind the closed door. It is hysterical – no one will ever tell me that a group of women can make a noise. This was like Babel, all of them speaking at the top of their voices, all at the same time, one man has a voice that cuts through the marrow of your bones. I eventuall just lay there, thinking that one day I will understand everything. That day is not today.

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