Italy 2017

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Vilanova de Arousa, Spain

“When one lives for a long time in great solitude, the silence or the darkness becomes visibly, audibly, and tangibly alive, and the unknown in oneself steps up in an unknown guise”

(C.G. Jung)

Perhaps the most profound part of this journey has been the solitude. Spending 30 days and nights alone. Well, in the company of my own thougths, dreams, fears, anxieties, jokes, anger, depression, joy. I have mostly been able to let these companions come and go. Every now and then, one of them would refuse to go, and would literally hang around the entire day. Mostly it was joy, but there were days that anger and sadness and fear also hung about. Joy is a soulful companion, makes the step light, breathing easy and uphill beareable. Fears – *******s. They climb into your backpack, spasm your muscles, burn your milt and mush your brain. And all you can do is to walk – with it, through it, but never away from it. It clings like the sweat to your skin. Wiping it away just makes it more sticky.

For most of the walking, there was no beginning or end. The perfect state of being – no worry about tomorrow or regrets about yesterday. Maybe the stiffness of the climb of yesterday somehow lingered the next day, but it soon disappeared as the muscles warmed up again. As the end of this journey comes nearer, so does the reality of having to go back., Of taking responsibility again, being the “boss”, making decisions and taking charge. Slowly it creeps into the silence of your footsteps, the crunch of the soil and the green of the moss. Before you know it, your minds has wondered off days ahead – the office, the clients.

It was a truly dreary weekend – wet to start with, the miserable youth hostel in Meis with all the boar hunters, then last night in this soulless place. I tried to find food, ended up with two pies – one tuna, one meat. Thank God for wine! Back at the hostel, I decided to have another beer. It was still early, and I needed to kill time before heading off to bed. The very friendly lady in the restaurant underneath the hostel who offered me the beautiful mussels and fritatta when I arrived, came with another little morsel: three prematurely born tiny little fish and a slice of bread. The fish looked as if they just jumped out of their mother’s womb (three months premature) onto my plate. I would assume that they had been deep fried (or killed in some other cruel way), but tonight I drew the line. Octopus – did it. Tripe – did it. The ear of a cow and tiny little fish with heads and tails – no way!

As a child, I remember vividly spending an easter weekend with very good friends of ours, oom Flip and tannie Hankies, and their son Louwrens, whom I grew up with. Oom Flip was a man of the sea, and my mother managed the Heidelberg Hotel for them for a while. We stayed in a little flat in the back yard of the hotel. The flat backed onto the Off Sales where oom Piet was the barman. There was another barman in the main bar, oom Jan, who lived in a room somewhere in the hotel backyard with Ben McCall (the head waiter, who came from Malawi, a wonderful gentle kind man) and some of the other hotel staff. Oom Jan used to grind his teeth so loudly at night that I could hear it in my bedroom. I recall many a Saturday evening that my mother (being the nurse/docter/psychiatrist/ambulance driver in town) had to stop fights between Ben and Ella (who worked in the kitchen), when after too much to drink things got ruff. I also recall her having to put stitches in a wound that was caused by Ella’s high heeled shoe in Ben’s head.

Just a bit of background – the easter weekend was spent in St. Sebastian Bay, where oom Flip and tannie Hankies had one of the little reed houses at the mouth of the Duivenhoks River. It was simple – I do not recall a bathroom. And the meals were all from the sea – allekrik, mussels, fish and harders. Harders are like sardines, just bigger. They were hauled from the sea by boat with a net, which Louwrens and I had to help operate. Back on land, they were put on the fire, and I was never sure if they were quite dead. They were not “cleaned” at all – braaied just like that. Well, it put me off eating fish for the next fourty years. Also – as a result of spending the entire weekend in the sun, I came home with sunstroke. For days I remember lying in bed in a sweaty fever, dreaming of being eaten alive by the mother of the harders while eating her children, crunching away at their intestines. I still cannot imagine eating a sardine – dead, alive, cooked or in a sauce. Ever.

As per the usual pattern, I wake up between 02h00 and 03h00. The good news is that when I got to the hostel last night, the owner of the restaurant gave me a little note to say that “the boat leaves at 13h30 today for the port of Vilanova”. I assume (and hope) that “today” is actually “tomorrow”. I could not walk 28kms today. My calves are in constant spasm, and my body is saying “NO!”. I realise that I have not taken a break since Porto. (Sitting in a cafe overlooking the harbour, I am amazed again at the television being on with top volume, and a show of acrobats entertaining the crowd. Between quizz shows, really old dubbed movies and this kind of thing I cannot believe the **** that is on television in this part of the world. And I have tried a few times to find anything to watch…).

So, today I find out the significance of the scallop shell, that seems something the average pilgrim cannot walk without. (I have resisted the urge to buy into this, not sure why really). Apparently James the apostle baptised pilgrims with water poured from a scallop shell. Good for them. If there is one thing that stands out more than anything else, it is perhaps the realisation of just how the Catholic church has idolised (in my humble opinion to the point of idolatory) Jesus, the saints and Mary. It would seem that the mysticism has been lost in the making concrete of everything that is sacred. It is now all contained in churches, chapels, art, crucifixes that people adore more than the miracle that it should represent. (In my first year at Stellenbosch university, Prof. Charles Fensham, lecturer in Hebrew history, came to hear of my rebellion and refusal to attend the prayer meetings. In my opinion, it was a circus of first year students trying to show off how well they can quote from the bible with their eyes closed. I made the comment that if I wanted to go to the circus, I would go to Boswell Wilkie and at least see something professional. Lead balloon if ever there was one. Prof. Fensham, wise old man, one morning before starting his lecture said to us “gentleman, don’t ever try to put God in a canned fruit bottle, He does not fit”). Thirty years later, it still seems that the only way that some people can get their heads around the universe and the miracle of it, is to make concrete what they think it should be or look like. Then they feel in control. Surely our brains have evolved beyond this?

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Vilanova de Arousa, Spain

For no rhyme or reason I wake up at 02h35. For once I have nothing to blame for this. The Albergue is dead quiet, cosy and warm, the mattress hard, the blanket soft. And yet, I am wide awake. Eventually I turn to Debussy, who manages to help me back to sleep. I wake up at 08h00, which is actually 09h00 because the clocks changed in the night. Maybe this was what woke me….

I am too early for the convent and the cafe. So I end up sitting on the stoep of the cafe where I had supper last night to use their wifi. The owner of this cafe is truly a sweet man – last night he offered me the most delicious Tarte Santiago and some other pastry “on the house” – I forgave him instantly for the terrible red wine. It is chilly outside, but a clear, blue skied day. Exactly at 09h00 the lady who first helped me with the Albergue yesterday opens the restaurant. We are like close friends now – I get a strong coffee with just a dash of hot milk, and two little cakes that are actually again delicious. Breakfast. I watch as one after the other customer comes in – she knows every individuals morning ritual – cortada, large black, small white. A true sense of community as I also witnessed last night as parents were having their meals and all the kids were playing in and out of the restaurant. I am very aware of how well behaved the kids are…

The minute I leave the village, the trail starts along the river, known as the trail of stone and water. And it is clear why – there are 33 stone mills built along this stretch of river, undoubtedly the most beautiful part of the caminho thus far. For 8,5 kms, the walk follows the river from mill to mill in different stages of disrepair. It seems incomprehensible that these mills were built, never mind used in days gone by. There are also saw mills that were powered by the river. (The one downside is that it is obviously a very popular route, and on a Sunday the entire world is out there, and way too many bloody mountain bikes, who come speeding along like lunatics!)

What is interesting is how the mind can take its own journey at times. Today, I really battled to find that stillness, in spite of the most incredibly surroundings. Whatever I tried, my mind had a mind of its own, wandering off to the most stupid and at times infuriating places. Nothing I could do, could keep it at bay. I know that “whatever you resist, persists”, but this was just ridiculous. Am I too tired perhaps? I am a great believer in the fact that the mind is influenced by the surroundings, but today, this mind was not going to be influenced by anything. Eventually I decided to just let it be. And started singing the song “let it be..”. If you can’t beat it, join it?

As soon as I left this incredible mountain stone water walk, the road started winding through the by now normal small village, eucalyptus forest, tar road, dirt road. I realised that yesterday took its toll – my body was taking strain. I stopped, did some stretching, spent some time stretched out on my back. Eventually I had to take a pain killer, my back was not letting up. The road was now very quiet again – Sunday afternoon, everyone having an extended siesta, only the dogs are out vigilently guarding against who knows what. About 6 km outside Vilanova de Arousa (my destination for today) I stopped at a cafe, thought I might need food (and beer). It was the usual jostle between my english and their spanish, until I figured out that they served a choice of two dishes with a beer. For 1.50 Euro. As they did not have wifi, I could not consult google translate. So I asked the very friendly young man to show me what he has to offer (FOOD that is!). He came out with two dishes, the one I figured out was braised cow’s ears. No thank you. The other had chickpeas and looked like another part of the cow. I chose that one. As soon as I started eating, I realised that it was curried……and that it was possibly tripe. I left the odd looking pieces and settled for the chick peas and the sauce which soaked well into the bread. All this happened with the TV on top volume with the Shell Malaysian Grand Prix finals – from the sublime to the ridiculous. As I left, I noticed a garage shop, made a beeline and bought a KitKat, Twix and Mars Bar which I finished in record time to get the idea of tripe out of my head (and mouth).

The last ten kilometers is torture. No matter what I try, my body is complaining. And then suddenly, I am on the estuary! The tranquil waters gently lapping the coast, and within a few minutes I reach the Albergue. Vilanova de Arousa is on yet another one of the estuaries, deep inland crevices that actually look more like lakes or lagoons. And I would have to lie if I said that it was at all attractive – a stunning setting ruined by holiday parks, caravan parks and blocks of hugely unattractive flats. I cannot believe that a setting like this could be so ruined. The Albergue is on top of a restaurant – the owner and his family are obviously enjoying the peace and quiet after the Sunday rush. They are extremely friendly and phone the keeper of the keys of the Albergue, I settle for a beer, and with it is served the most wonderful fresh mussels, sourdough bread and some really really good frittata! Just what a broken pilgrim needs!

The keeper of the keys of the Albergue arrives – more dreary and depressing I cannot image a place to be. Yet – the mattress is firm, the blankets soft, and no doubt I will be listening to Debussy again at 02h00 this morning. AND – there is no boat service to Padron tomorrow. I will take the train.

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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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Pontevedra, Spain and Canary Islands

To wake up this morning with the smell of the ocean, the cry of seagulls and the gentle sound of water lapping onto the stoney beach, is heaven. To be able to sleep until I wake is a pleasure I treasure more than most others. Last night in the hostal I meet two French couples and a Dutch couple. The French are travel agents, walking from Tui to check out hotels. The Dutch started two days ago, and by the looks of things are not going to last. In spite of the fact that both groups have their luggage transported from hotel to hotel for them, they complain bitterly about how difficult the walk is. I am like a cat who got the cream telling them that I have been doing it for 25 days, WITH my backpack.

One thing I have learnt, is “mind over matter”. And I think (and have told the Dutch couple) that it makes a huge difference doing the walk on your own. You have no one to complain to, no one to compete or compare with. Something I learned many many years ago from James Piek, is to “just do it”. When I worked at the Holiday Inn in Pretoria a hundred years ago, I started at 06h00 in the morning. In those days I only had a motorbike, and getting up at 05h00, getting out in the Pretoria winter, really did my head in. I used to complain and moan and groan. One night James said to me: “you know, regardless of how much you complain about getting up and driving in the cold, you will still have to do it. So you are wasting an enormous amount of time and energy, while you could be enjoying yourself, complaining about the inevitable”. It changed my life. I tried it – and yes, I still had to get up, but not actually starting the painful process a day earlier, made it so much easier.

This journey is like that – I get up, shower, pack my bag (somehow I end up unpacking the entire bag every evening) and go. I don’t give it a second thought. I don’t work out how far, how steep, how long – I just walk. Also – I think the thing that irritated me about the guidebook was the fact that it was so full of the writer’s opinions. I don’t want to know that in 10 kms there will be a “scraggly village”. (I have the same thing about reading film or theatre reviews – I hate having my experience influenced by the opinion of other people). Let me see/experience it, then I will compare it, untainted, to the opinion of others.

Apart from one thigh-muscle-eating-mother-of-an-uphill , the road is gentle. Oh and course after an uphill there is inevitably a down hill. The down hill feels as if you are on points in ballet shoes (I am SO glad I am not wearing boots!). The really steep down hill takes you into Soutomaior, across an old stone bridge, fishing boats gently lazing on their buoys, the men sitting on the sidewalks, women doing the Friday washing and cleaning. The route ambles criss cross through the village. At one point I hear someone humming a familiar tune – a sturdy housewife is removing the washing from the line humming “o bla di, o bla da”. I get a beautiful smile from her when I say good day! It is such a pity (to me, I am sure not to the women) that technology has now made the public lavanderia redundant. The stone around the crystal clear water looks soft after years of scrubbing the working clothes of men, sheets and bed covers. I can imagine the stories being shared standing around the edge of the trough – husbands being unfaithful, dreams of far away places, secret admirers, lost loves. A communion of chores that brought women together in a ritual reserved for only them.

In modern day Spain, it is very interesting to observe the role of men in a city like Pontevedra. We saw the same thing when we were further south – men take the children to the square in the late afternoon. There is a very intimate interaction, games being played, football played and stories shared, (I hope the women are then at gym or pilates, and not cooking supper…). An hour or so later the women would join, often with the grandparents. And then the whole extended family would walk around, ending up at a cafe on the square, meeting friends, laughing, joking, teasing. The children play with wild abandon – balls, push-bikes, tricycles, swords and shields. The most endearing scenes of fathers cuddling and cajoling, wiping tears and sharing laughs.

Pontevedra lies at the edge of another piece of inland sea, a sophisticated town with all the brand names, stately building with exquisite bay windows, sophisticated people with pedigree dogs. (The other observation – so many Veterinary practices. If only they would release all the poor chained up dogs!). But dogs are everywhere in the city – beautifully groomed, well behaved and obviously much loved. The first impression I have as I walk (stumble) into to the city, is of vagrants on the square. It would seem that the more sohisticated the city (or maybe the ore touristy), the more vagrants are about. On the main square where the convent presides over life, there are scores of what seems like homeless people begging in doorways. At every street cafe beggars ask for money. I watch closely – most people actually give them something. (I reserve my cash for the Bergies in Cape Town).

I find an affordable hotel in the centre of town, making sure that it has proper double glazed windows. Just as well, because as I venture out to have a meal, a man with home-made bagpipes is entertaining the crowds on the square. Now with the high stone buildings and cobbled stone streets, he has better accoustics than the Royal Albert Hall. (Forgive me – but I do find the sound of bagpipes really really awful. Unless at a military tatoo – I once heard a thousand bagpipes in Edinburgh at the tatoo – it does sound like someone is slaughtering a pig with a blunt knife!). It is the most horrific sound ever.

Tomorrow I once again veer off the beaten track to follow the “caminho espirituale”. I have no idea what to expect, but hope for more solitude, peace, quiet and grace. Away from bagpipes!

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Pontevedra, Spain

So just when I have perfected the art of ordering coffee to get it the way I like it in Portuguese, I am back in Spain. So now the greetings change from “bom dia” to “buenos dias” and I get them terribly mixed up, not to mention the “obrigado” and “gracias”. Ai tog. Anyway – the beer is better in Portugal, the olives better in Spain.

My Hotel Parque is really run down, but I have a great dinner (tuna salad, steak and chips, a “few” glasses of vina del a casa for 9 euro). Hot bath and bed for the weary traveller – at 01h30 a child starts crying. And crying and crying and crying. And crying. As I am not yet the Dalai Lama, I consider my options. Just before I execute a murderous plan it stops. Of course – I am wide awake. And I don’t have emails to answer. And I have over 20 kms to do in the morning. Anyway, I eventually go back to sleep. The child also. (For which his parents can thank their lucky stars…).

The cafe around the corner on the sqaure serves a large cafe con leche WITH a little freshly baked croissant and a piece of cake for 90 cents! (Where there was the war between the local and the pigeons). My walk starts on the main town square. It is always a pain to get out of the city – you can choose between going via Paarden Island, Montague Gardens, or Epping Industria. Take your pick. Whichever route you take, it is kak. By now, it is amazing how the mind adapts. If I think how disturbing I found this at the beginning, thinking why on earth I am walking here – now, I just walk. The same with getting up in the morning – at home I would wonder “why oh why this day?”. Here, I get up, shower, get dressed, pack up and walk. Just like that. I don’t give it a second thought. And the walks have become quiet. I am eternally grateful that the bloody hallelujas have disappeared. And the FAK songs. Now, I listen to my feet on the ground, my breathing, the birds, the traffic, the barking of the dogs. And somehow, I have walked into a quiet space. A blissful, gentle quiet space.

Of course I think “what is this all about?” and “what has changed?” and “is this really a life changing joiurney?”. And I have serious conversations with myself. And thus far, all I have decided to change is to have breakfast every day. It might improve my moods. I am so glad that I managed to do this on my own (except for Marco of course – he might just pop up again any minute soon!). The solitude has been my greatest gift. Spending time with me, doing it at my pace, and in my space. I often wondered if I am missing out because I am not meeting other people and sharing experience. And every time I realise that I have no desire to do so. Being on my own for the past 25 days, not making small talk, not having to listen to other people, has been wonderful. I walked into my own sadness, into some deep, dark places where I have not been for many years. And I walked out of them again, knowing (as I have always believed) that only to the extent that one is prepared to go down into that dark place, will you be able to go into the light again. It is a law of physics – the amplitude of life. If you are not prepared to go down, you wil not go up. You can spend all your life energy trying to balance an equilibrium – never too sad, never too happy, showing the brave face to the world. Or you can be true to the inner tide and let life be with you, through you and because of you.

Along the way I see a pilgrim whom I have noticed a few times in passing. He is very small (looks about twelve years of age), blond, a little bit of fluff (really) on his chin, the thinnest little arms. His boots look as if they are three sizes too big, dragging his right foot that looks slightly turned inward. He has a small backpack, a little briefcase, and a plastic shopping bag with a big book in it. He also carries a large bottle of water, a leather jacket and sweatshirt hanging from his backpack. He walks like I sometimes do when I go to work in the morning, juggling too many things on my way to the car because I am too lazy to walk twice. But – he is walking the Caminho like this! From Lisbon, I find out as I catch up with him. He is giving SUCH short steps that it looks as if he is actually stumbling all the time. He is from France, and a really pleasant person. But after ten minutes I have to walk on as I cannot walk that slow. For the rest of the day – not a single other pilgrim. In Redondela I stop for coffee and a pie (yes they do wonderful pies in this area). I have already done my bit with a beer, a Tarte de Santiago (beautiful frangipani tart – a moist almond filling in a thin shortcrust pastry), so the pie is just to have a seat for a while. I decide not to stay in town, but rather go to the coast, off the route, and explore what the coast has to offer.

This part of the coast has several deep cuts inland, that form lagoon-like, quiet strands, blissful beaches and seemingly popular fishing spots. There are some huge houses, but also some tiny little seaside huts, all making for a wonderfully romantic area. Since the tide is extremely low, I decide to take a chance and actually walk on the beach. The peace and quiet is tangible. At a little cafe, a young boy is sitting next to the water doing his homework, with two canaries in their cages for company.

To end this blog – and please stop reading here if you are religiously sensitive, I have to share an experience. As this is a pilgrimage route, it literally goes past just about every single church in Portugal and Spain. One would take major detours in order to just walk past another church. But hey – when in Rome… As I mentioned before, the architecture of some of these churches and chapels are quite extraordinary, so I go in, take a break and enjoy the peace and quiet inside. Most of the time, the interior is so over the top in gold and angels and miserable looking Jesuses that it is hard to take it all in. But it is quiet, away from the sun, and the benches give good back support for a while. So I walk into one of these many churches, and notice a woman busy dusting Jesus on the cross. “Aha” I think, “it must be getting quite dusty in these old buildings, glad to see He is getting a bit of a cleaning up before the weekend”. In order not to disturb her in her holy task, I sit down very quietly without her noticing me. As I sit down, I realise that she actually is not the cleaning lady, she is touching Jesus, obviously as part of her “hail Marys” or prayer rituals. So not knowing that I am behind her, I watch her reaching way up to touch the crown of thorns, then she (yes) puts her finger in His mouth, then in her mouth, she strokes his sides and puts her finger in the stigmata on His side. She then starts kissing His loin cloth, as His ****** is exactly at eye level for her. Then she proceeds to kiss His loins over and over, and it looks exactly as if she is – ok, you get the message what it looks like. And there I am, like a voyeur, watching this little scene playing out in front of me, totally stunned! I am too scared to move. (For one I don’t want to miss anything, secondly I will be horrified if she knew I was watching her!). Before I could slip out, she turns around and sees me. Well, I just got up and walked out. Outside, I did not know if I should laugh hysterically or be hysterically concerned. WHAT on earth is this about? The image is SO absurd that I cannot get it out of my head….

Anyway, all in a good day’s walking.

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Ponteareas, Spain and Canary Islands

How is it possible that after walking 18,5 kms, being dog dead tired, emotionally drained, I wake up at 02h00 and am ready to get up an go again? WIDE awake. The room is quiet, there is no light, and yet I cannot for the life of me fall asleep again. And it is not even as if my mind is busy – just lying there, awake. Eventually I decide to answer some long overdue emails, and by 04h00 try again. Lights off – I wake up at 09h00. Crazy!

I leave the beautiful (yet absurdly spoilt by the linen shops) town of Valenca to cross the massive iron bridge into Spain, just like that. An hour time difference, a different language, culture, food – another country. In the old days there would have been a passport control on either side – the buildings are still there. Now, just a walk across the border. Easy.

Tui is on the other side – another beautiful town with massive cathedrals and cobbled streets. At this point, I can honestly not face another cathedral. As I walk past the entrance, there is a tour group of about 60 people standing outside being lectured by their guide in Spanish. I see them all turn and look at me like one person. Did I forget to put my pants on? The guide turns to me and asks me something in Spanish, I explain no Spanish, and she says “oh english is very good. Are you a pilgrim?” And the entire group wait in eager anticipation. Now quite frankly, I prefer to refer to myself as a traveller rather than a pilgrim, but at that point there is no place for semantics. She was obviously telling the group about the pilgrimage when I appeared just at the right moment. When they hear that I am from South Africa, there are oooohs and aaaaahs all round, and I am being photographed like St. James himself had just appeared on the steps of the cathedral. In person. I give a little royal wave, my best smile and walk on. From the back of the crowd a young guy comes up to me – he is from Klerksdorp. Nou ja toe. He works on the cruise ships, and this is a tour group that he is accompanying as part of his work. (Not sure where they left the ship, we are a bit far away from the coast!).

It is clear that the Spaniards are very serious about their Caminho – suddenly there are signs every few meters. Some are decorated – one in tiny shells showing that there is still 114 kms left. Most of the road is sadly tarred, with little escapes into the forest every now and then. An interesting thing on today’s stretch is that on two occasions there is a waymark dispute. It is obvious that local businesses want the pilgrims to walk past their shops, bars and cafes, so they seem to manipulate the route through the waymarks! At one junction, the yellow arrows had been painted over several times, showing a route past an industrial area as apposed to a more scenic route along the river. Someone is obviuosly making it there business to restore the arrows, only to be painted over again. The war of the arrows. At another point, someone took yellow paint and sprayed about ten arrows on the tar road showing the scenic route. It is hilarious! This happens along most of the route into Redondela, where I decide to stay.

I dodge the Youth Hostel (2 dormitories with 40 beds each) and start hostal hunting. The first one offers a room for 40 euro, which I decline. Well, she could make it 35! I decline and start to walk away, ok then, 25 euros. Thank you very much, I will stay. The hotel is old, run down, stained carpets, musty smell, peeling paint. I think I am the only person staying there. But, it has a huge bath, thick towels (must have been shopping in Valenca), and great pillows. What more can a pilgrim traveller want? I decide it is time to do some laundry – something that by the smell of things I have put off for too long considering my limited wardrobe. So, like my Gran used to do with her heavy washing, I pile everything in the bath, loads of liquid soap (theirs) and trample out the dirt with my feet. Like a real gypsy, I hang it all over the balcony (yes, I have a balcony!) and go into town with a pair of training shorts and a long sleeve thermal vest, one blue and one black sock, and crocs. I have never in my life appeared in public looking like this, and must confess that I am quite self conscious about it. However, no one here will ever see me again. Ola.

So now I am sitting on the town square in my bedroom attire, watching the very elegant locals having their afternoon coffees. The pigeons are an absolute pest, and they target the lady across from me on purpose. She gets into a total rage, jumps up waving the newspaper at them, they fly away and come back to taunt her. What fun.

It is very interesting to see how many people still smoke. It is a full time job to try and find a place to sit outside that is not crowded with smokers. It is also interesting to see the number of very large optometrist and dentist practices. The latter seems to be the latest, state of the art practices, huge properties with marble, glass and fancy furniture. And children clothing stores – just about every fourth store sells designer baby and children clothes – dresses that look like something from Downtown Abbey. (I have never seen any children actually wearing these clothes here, but they do have many shops selling them!). It is also very noticeable how people with different abilities are integrated into society.

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Valenca, Portugal

My friend Elmie posted something about the student riots this morning that touched me deeply, and caused an avalanche of emotion to come to the surface. The posting was about the stupid remarks of some white students regarding the behaviour of black students. And then some further comments from a (white) person about how he also had to pay for his own tuition, and “why don’t these people go to a Technikon” etc.

I paid for my own studies, at the age of 50 I am stuill studying and still paying for it myself. Yes I found a job to help me pay for my studies when I was at UCT. In fact I baked chicken pies for Cafe Paradiso, getting up at 04h00 in the morning, roilling out pastry, deboning chickens, delivering before Varsity started in the morning. BUT – I lived in a nice house in Tamboerskloof that had a stove, electricity and running water. I was poor, but I had money to run a (clapped out) little car, to go home to my parents on weekends where I had a room, love, wonderful home-cooked meals and my Dad filled my car with petrol to get back again. My parents were poor, but I had a house to go to, not a maid’s room in some white people’s backyard. My Mom a nurse and my Dad a mechanic, they were still earning at least a 100% more in salary than our domestic or Koos who worked in the garden. And on a Sunday when I went back to Varsity, the car was packed with rusks and jams and preserves from my Granny (who lived in a council flat paid for by the municipality). Because we were white.

And I went to a school where we had teachers who were trained, had the privilege (although I hated every second of it) to be in a hostel, sang in the choir, went on choir tours, could do music as a subject, had a career counselling teacher (who in my opinion was braindead and useless). My family had two cars, plus my Dad a motorbike and my Mom a scooter. We were “poor”. When I had to go and study for the first time in Stellenbosch, I had to apply for a student loan through Volkskas, which I got. Because we were white.

I was bullied because I was “different”. Gay, queer, a moffie. For the first 18 years of my life I had to be on the watch – who is going to tease, hit, slap, joke, humiliate me because I am different. At hostel in Oudtshoorn, I used to lock myself up in the toilet for hours on end to just get away from the relentless bullying. I know what it feels to be ostracized, marginalised. In my second year of Varsity at Stellenbosch, it all became too much. I was enrolled to study theology, in a desperate attempt to redeem myself before God for the evil person that society made me out to be. Again, because I was white I was in a hostel, with electricity and water and food. But my emotional state prevented me from any form of focus on studying – I was too angry. The day I dragged myself to the dean of the “Kweekskool”, Prof. Willie Jonker, sitting right up there next to God and all the apostles, I was told in a cold, clinical tone of voice “maybe this is not for you. Maybe you should go..”. (He was a “Pastoral Psychologist” I think). He could not hear me, he could not understand my existential crisis. His advice was “to go…”. Where? Any suggestions? Any hole deep enough to go and hide myself in?

When I look at the students protesting, I can totally identify with their rage against the system. Generations of “bullying” – of mothers in maid’s rooms, fathers working on mines, hereditary alcohol abuse, being told “you are not good enough because you are not white”. Go to the Technikon. Let the white students at least write their exams.

Was I angry? Would I have burnt things down and killed people? Hell yes! If at the age of 20 someone had given me an Ak47, I would have walked into the church in Heidelberg on a Sunday morning, I would have shouted the worst possible profanities to the congregation, to the white men sitting in black suits as “elders and deacons”, I would have shouted things that no one had ever heard in church, about their *****ing in the “coloured location”, about their bigotry. And I would have emptied a few rounds seeing blood splatter on the white walls. I would have walked out and burnt the place to the ground. And then I would have most probably shot myself. But, because I was white, I could go into therapy, where I spent 25 (yes, twenty five) years trying to undo the harm that mindless, stupid people caused. And I also paid for that myself, at times having to steal empty cold drink bottles that the neighbours had put outside which I returned for money at the cafe. How many students raging with anger can go into therapy? And when they do, can they do so in their own language? Us white people are astounded that African people say our universities are eurosentic, yet how many psychological tests and assessment tools have been developed in South Africa for non-western indigeous people? Zero. My diagnosis in therapy? A “homicidal rage”. And I was only bullied…

I have never been exposed to racism. I do not know what it must feel like to have been brought up in system where you are not good enough. Where your mother, as a Char, must try and find money to help you to get an education – university or technikon, whatever. I do not know what it must feel like to not have a home with a bed and electricity and food to go to. I have never had to watch my Mother climb over a wall on the N1 highway to go and find wood to make a fire to cook something for supper, God knows what. Or to see my Father standing next to the road begging for a job. Or to remember a time or just to hear stories of a time called “Apartheid”.

So I understand, and am deeply moved by the protests. And whatever ******** people are using to rationalise or to blame, whether it is apartheid or Zuma, I understand. And I feel a deep sense of sadness crying for my beloved country.

And then this morning, Sophie, our char, friend, mother, housekeeper, the love of Frikkie and Frummel’s life resigns. Because she can no longer carry on supporting a jobless husband a two children on tik. She want to go back to her family in Namakwaland “where people care about her”. God knows she tried everything in her power, studying, taking on extra work. But the system failed her. She is now giving up. And I am so sad for Sophie, and for everyone person in our country and in Syria and Palestine and Israel who were ****** over by the system for so long. Because I feel their homicidal rage. And I was only bullied….

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Santo Estevão, Portugal

Ok, now that I got the catharsis over with, I can tell you about my journey. Since there was no ferry (for no rhyme or reason) in Caminha, I walked to Vila Nova de Cerveira. Even though the map shows the walk going alongside the river, the Pilgrims of ancient times must have had other ideas. They preferred to walk in the bush. (Up to no good, me thinks…). Seriously – while there is a perfectly good path running all along the river, the pilgrimage is all along the edge of town, far away from the cafes and the beer, on the edge of the forest. As my heart sinks into my shoes, I just think of yesterday and what an incredibly beautiful path it was, and I go forth. And it is the same again – ancient paths, cobbled, through the most beautiful forest landscape.

I read that there is supposed to be a Youth Hostel, but somehow, after the last night, I cannot see myself in one tonight. I walk out of town, and discover the Inatel Hotel. Suffice to say, there is NOTHING caminhno about this place. Four stars, the works. I pay with a smile, have a long hot shower, a nap and then walk back to town to try and find something to eat. The town is deserted. Really, truly deserted. I end up in a cafe where I am delighted at the fact that they actually can serve a tuna salad. (I think I have scurvy and it has gone to my brain. Like syphillis).
My solitude is at the moment the most precious gift.

And then of course, Marco appeared. He stayed at the Youth Hostel (brave man), and was going on to Valenca today. I immediately decide that I will take a train back to Caminho and catch the ferry. We exchange pleasantries and platitudes (“a remark or statement, especially one with a moral contect, that been used too often to be interesting or thoughtful”). Like the **** people post on Facebook with pictures of angels and flying pigeons that are supposed to look like doves. (An example – it is not about the destination, but about the journey). Anyway, I participate gladly, pay the bill and walk back to my hotel, which is about three kilometres out of town. Marco will be going north, I will be going west. End of that.

Back at the hotel, I decide to have another glass of wine in the foyer. To my (not) surprise, an entire busload of OLDER (as in geriatric, my specialty) people have checked into the hotel in my absence, and are now having dinner in the restaurant. And a crooner is setting up his electronic piano in the foyer to entertain them after their meal. I watch them totter into the foyer, flop down in chairs that are too low for the hip replacements, and sit and wait for the music. I decide to go to bed…

Thanks to sound proof walls, thick curtains and enough red wine, I sleep like the dead. Eventually I wake up at 08h30 only because I accidentaly knock over the empty red wine glass next to my bed and splatter it to pieces on the tile floor. (I might still have been asleep if that did not knock me right out of bed). I decide to go to breakfast immediately – a hotel breakfast! And yes, I meet the bus. It is so funny – the man turning the whole pepper pot onto his scrambled eggs, the lady trying to pick the raisins out of the muesli, the one harassing the waiter for hot milk – like being back at work! I sit in the corner watching all this, laughing by myself, when suddenly I feel a very strong pair of hands on my shoulders: MARCO! He had walked all the way out to my hotel to tell me that he is taking my advice, to be adventurous, take the road less travelled, and that he is not going to Valenca like he had planned, but that like me, he is going to cross the bridge (into Spain), and be the adventurer and walk back down the river and up the coast. I cannot believe this – walking three kilometres to my hotel to come and tell me his plans. Good lord. And then he leaves.

Of course, now the decision on which route is easy – I go the opposite direction on the road travelled by everyone else.

Just before I go, I check Facebook (as one does before losing the wifi signal) for one last time. I see two things – a message from Victor that Sophie (our Char for the past 13 years) has resigned and a post by a friend about the student riots back home. Somehow these two bits of news collide and coincide and contort in my brain to completely ruin the day. When I eventually sit down, I realise that I had walked ten kilometres without a break. I was exhausted, completely overcome by emotion, and in tears. I stopped, hauled out my ipad, and started writing. Relieved and drained, I set off to Valenca.

The town of Valenca is built inside the old castle walls. Somehow, it is completely filled with shops selling table cloths, towels and baby clothes. I have no idea why, but it is like walking into a mall of linen shops. And they are all selling the same things! The city, the ancient stone walls and look-outs are beautiful, and yet these absurd shops! I venture out beyond the castle walls and find a shop where I buy bread, cheese, ham and wine and decide to have a quiet night in my room. Tomorrow life should return to normal again. I hope.

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Vila Nova de Cerveira, Portugal

The walk into Viana do Castelo hugs the peaceful river Lima as she gracefully opens up into the sea. Whilst still on the surface, her massive body moves at quite a speed, so mesmerizing that I have to take off my pack and just go an sit on her bank for a while to soak it all up. The sun is setting, my body is at breaking point, but the world can wait. I have business here. When I eventually get up, a man with a camera walks up to me showing me pictures that he took of me in the sunset, very pleased with himself. When I show my appreciation, he is even more pleased. Simple pleasures. Sunday evening, and the village is more dead than usual. Chairs stacked up outside cafe’s and restaurant bares testimony to the fact that it will have to be sandwich again for supper. After quite a bit of searching, I find the youth hostel, tucked away in the basement of an unmarked building close to the river. I go down the ramp, and is welcomed to Youth Hostel Caminha. For all of 5 euro, the offer the following: – no sheets – no pillows – no towel – no breakfast – no wifi – a bunk bed in a dormitory with 20 bunks – hot showers – disposable cover for the matresss – 22h00 curfew There are no other options in the town, I am walking the Caminho, I can pull up my bigboy undies and do it. Thanks to Sally I have a travel towel (those chamoise type that feel really creepy against your skin) and a silk liner. Also from previoius experience I packed my own pillow case – I have had sleepless nights with the smell of cigarette smoke on a pillowcase. So, I stuff a spare blanket (there are only two other people in the dorm) in the pillow case, put the paper over the hard plastic cover of the matresss, and go in search of food. As I am about to leave the hostel, Marco clocks in! I make a quick escape after friendly greetings. Walking up and down town, there is very little choice. There is one restaurant open, but it is crazy expensive. When I see one I like, Marco is sitting in a corner. I am about to give it up and buy a packet of chips and a coke, when I see a light down a side street saying “Jeni’s Diner” – “A real American Diner”. Yea right. Well, I have little choice. The interior is pink and lime green, very bright lights and no customers, which is never a good sign. I walk in, ask the lady behind the counter (whose hair is dyed the same pink as the chairs) if she speaks english. “I am from New York” she replies. I am not sure if I should be glad or disappointed, but decide I should eat and get before I am locked out as a result of the 22h00 curfew. So Jeni, with the pink hair, grew up in New York but her parents and grandparents are from Portugal. When her grandfather became very ill, she came here to help, and decided to stay. She is now married with a man from the USA, and they have a cute baby girl that I also meet. The bacon and cheese burger is a huge treat, with some of the best chips ever. (The Portuguese potatoes are something special – there is a really buttery, waxy variety of potato that is served with Bacalhau, and obviously used for these chips. They have a soft, rich texture and is almost yellow in colour.) With a few glasses of the housewine (that has also not disappointed to date), I am ready for a night in the youth hostel. SO I thought…. Back at the ranch, Marco and the two Spaniards are asleep already, and I have to fumble around in the dark. (Thank goodness I am so organised that I have a tiny little torch, thanks to Cundy and Sebs). I slip into my silk liner (very sensual) and settle in for the night. The blanket over my delicious silk liner is scratchy, it even scratches me right through the liner. If I throw it off, there is a draft from the open window above me. I cannot sleep with the windows closed, so I will just snuggle, I usually fall asleep within seconds and then I am hot in any case. I have my little travel pillow under my blanket/pillow/home-pillowcase contraption. Within minutes, the blanket inside the pillowcase turns to stone. So I have to put the travel (kidney shaped) travel pillow on top. It has a tiny little whole in it which I managed to tie up with the cord that is attached to the pillow, which obviously has come loose, so now I have a gazillion little hollow fibre miniscule balls in my bed. I get rid of those, tie a knot over the whole in the travel pillow again, and go to sleep. Not. Every time someone turns around, the metal bunk beds creak, and the plastic cover of the mattresses complains. A loud, plastic complain. Every time I turn around, the plastic creaks and complains. And the paper cover is not big enough to stick to the mattress, so it is now all creased underneath me. If I turn, the plastic complains. The Spaniard snores. Not loud, but just enough to keep me awake. At 01h30 I get up, wrap the silk liner around me and decide to go and write my blog. At 02h30 I am back in bed, hearing the church bell chime at 03h00. Minutes later, a cock starts crowing. I am wide awake. Of course, just as the Spaniards are getting out of bed, I want to doze off. So I get up and hope to find a place open for coffee. Thankfully the coffee shop next to the Youth Hostel is open and has wifi. I wolf down to double espressos and a croissant (well, the stodgy Portuguese version of something that looks like a croissant) and feel ready for the day. On my way to catch the ferry, I bump into Marco who is sitting on a bench next to the river, ready to have his breakfast consisting of three carrots, three turnips, a banana and a mango, and a bottle of water. In his rucksack he has a state of the art vegetable peeler! (He also has clean clothes for about every second day, a set up flannel pajamas and a matching pillow that his daughter made for him), Well, now I know why we are such worlds apart! I am sure he feels a million times better than I do on caffeine and stodge, but I will not swap my breakfast for his in a million years! As I arrive at the ferry that will take me across the river to be able to walk the coastal route, I am told that there is no ferry today. It is Monday. No sign, no reason, no ferry – point. So, I have to take the inland route. And again, it is so amazing to walk along cobbled roads with high stone packed walls, as if these have been left for thousands of years for me to discover again. It is so quiet, and with that it quiets the mind. The Hallelujas are gone (thank goodness), I now just walk and breath with the moss and the fearns. At one point in one of those typical little villages, the arrows point right up the front stairs of a tiny little stone cottage, literally to the front door, where an arrow points to the right. The front door is open, and there sits an old woman of maybe 90 or more, four bottom teeth left in her mouth, looking down at me. I stop in my tracks, looking left and right to see if I am maybe missing something, but she gently waves me towards her en nods her head. Yes, this is the way. Right past my front door. And it is these quiet moments, the shared smile (toothless and all), a nod of the head, the “boa viage” of a stranger that is so sincere, that makes this an unforgettable journey. Even though today is only 19,65 kms, the terrain is uneven, with lots of up and downhill stretches. Walking downhill is a *****. It feels as is someone is taking a blowtorch to my thigh muscles when I go downhill. And of course you know that what goes down must go up again. After last night, I decide that I am treating myself to a hotel tonight, there is no way that I am going to go through that drama again. Caminha is still on the river, another small village with a mix of old and new. rich and poor, young and old. Of course, as I sit down to write my blog and eat a tuna salad, who shall appear? Marco. Looking bright eyed and bushy tailed after so many carrots and turnips and fruit.

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Viana do Castelo, Portugal

The Hotel Baghdad comes to mind when I look around the Motel that we ran into when it looked as if the rain was never going to stop. We waited about twenty minutes in a garage shop, where the attendant was determined to show me in the local newspaper that this rain was going nowhere. When I walk into the motel room, my heart sinks. The bedroom was built for a Portuguese tannie. There is no way that I will be able to stretch out on the tiny little single bed. €30! As I turn around to go back to reception and ask them if this was some kind of joke, I notice the real bedroom: luxurious double bed plus another single bed. Sometimes in life one must just turn around. I have dinner with Marco, who seems to have found his second new best friend, Eckardt Tolle being the first. I get several lessons from “The power of now”, and while I absolutely appreciate his kind demeanor, it is not in sync with mine. A father of four, he works for the biggest provider of maintenance services for the German railways. I try my best, but everything in me rebels against company at this point. After dinner and a fantastic bottle of red wine (cheapest on the menu at €9) I make a quick escape to my room. I would have preferred to have dinner alone and write my blog. Anyway – such is life. I dream the most horrific dream of being in a war movie where I have to shoot some very dangerous and scary terrorists. I remember from my National Service days how I hated the feel of a rifle in my hand. (I almost called it a gun – which if we did that in our training we were made to stand on the parade ground, rifle in on hand and the other hand clutching your ****** shouting “this is my rifle, this is my gun. This is for pleasure, this is for fun). I just happen to be a brilliant shot (in my dream) and kill all the terrorists, getting everyone out of the building before it is blown up. The terrorists were suicide bombers who had massive explosives strapped to their bodies. Lucky escape. I wake up early (bloody hell – again!). It is raining. The green swimming pool bares testimony to to a soft rain pouring down. I know understand why the farmers were out ploughing, they obviously knew the rains were coming. The earth they tilled mist be rejoicing for this rain – I dread to think what it must smell like…. So today will have to be a day for rain gear. I dread having to tell Marco that I don’t want to walk with him. I rehearse how I am going to tell him this – over and over in my head. We meet for breakfast (another breadfast) and he has planned our day in detail, map printed out in the precision that only a German engineer can orchestrate. I almost choke on my bread roll. I realise what a bloody “people’s pleaser” I am. Somehow I find it so easy to say “yes, of course I can do that, it would be lovely. No it is no hassle, I would love that”. Can I say “NO”? No. I can’t. We eat our breakfast, and I give him my Buchulife ointment, as I noticed that he has the most terrible eczema on his arms. He is really a nice person. By the end of breakfast, I have not said a word about going on my own. ****! So back in my room, I know that he is going to skype with his family as his wife called during breakfast, their little 2 year old girl has a bad temperature. I get dressed, raingear and all, and quickly go and knock on his door to tell him that I am heading out, good luck, bom caminho and “I am sure we will meet again”. That was like doing the whole Mad Scene from Lucia de Lammermoor – I am exhausted, but just about run out of the hotel into the pouring rain. The look on Marco’s face is devastating. Within about ten minutes, I realise that my rain gear is not going to do the trick – I am sweating like someone on serious drug withdrawal symptoms, the sweat is POURING off me. I am literally more wet on the inside of my clothes than I am on the outside because of the rain. So much for “breathing Goretex”. My Goretex is dead. Morsflippendood. It ain’t breathing. In the next village, I stop for a coffee and cannot get out of the rain gear quick enough. (I think the lady behind the counter had heart failure when she saw me stripping like a demon had possessed my body!). Umbrella – I thought it was a silly idea when June suggested it, but realise it is the only thing that will help. Easy to manipulate, close and open when necessary, and put away when not needed. To get in and out of rain gear is like a full costume change. And just when you have taken it off, it ****** down again. The 5 euro umbrella is a life saver. It will most probably not last until the next village, but it is great to be able to walk in a T-shirt, not get soaking wet and not sweating like the pig. My expectation is that I am not walking the coastal route, that is what I signed up for. That is not what is offered. The route is constantly taking me away from the coast, up the bloody creek. Literally. It goes all along the outskirts of town, waaaay above the coast behind all the houses. Every time I get to a cross road, I think “YES”, we (Brierly and I) are now going to see a yellow arrow going LEFT, down to the coast. Nope, it goes right, into the forrest. And it is POURING down with rain, literally. The 5 euro umbrella is keeping the worst out, but the rain is getting in from the sides. Walking through one of the villages, I notice people going to visit family, a baked pudding or salad in hand, dodging the rain under (expensive) umbrellas, quickly disappearing into warm, fire-lit houses where family dinners will be served, with lots of wine and heart warming food. And I am walking in the rain like a total bloody idiot. As I pass one of the houses, a woman is loading her car with the produce for the family lunch. She looks up at me, I smile, and the next thing she returns my smile with a beautiful acknowledgement, offering me an apple with a meaningful “boa viag” (have a good journey). It takes me a while before I can eat the apple, I am so choked up by this random act of kindness from a total stranger. Not much further, a very elegant gentleman is standing in the rain waiting for his host to open the it for him. He gives me a wide, geniune smile, looks at my disheveled, wet clothes and asks, with a look of total disbelief, “Santiago?”. I reply, maybe even a bit over enthusiastic “Si si si”. He throws his eyes up to the sky and exclaims in the most endearing, respectful and saluting “meu Deus” (my God) that moves me to tears. I walk for a long while with this in my heart – it was so warm and comforting. I realise that I have one of two choices – the usual ***** and moan and groan, or just walk. I chose the latter. The minute I disappear into the forest, I am usurped by the magic of rain on the leaves and branches and moss and stone. it is truly like an Alice in Wonderland experience Kerry, as if I am swooped away from any reality, into a world of enchantment and magic. The pouring rain has metamorphed everything. A new green, new smells, the sound of the pattering rain on the cheap umbrella, streams forming through crevices. I am encapsulated, engulfed, absorbed, embryoed (I know there is no such word, I just made it up) by the forest. There is not another human being on the planet, it is just me and the forest. I walk on ancient paths – cobbles, stone blocks that were transported into the forest hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Who built this? How long did it take? How did they get it up here? And the packed stone walls, the velvet of moss in so many variations from green to bright yellow, new ferns sprouting, tiny little flowers vehemantly clutching to crevices in the rocks, determined to bloom against all odds. The leaves are now in their autumn splendour – warm ochres, auburn and deep red wine reds. Chestnuts are falling off the trees in abundance, cracking open their hedgehog shells to reveal perfectly brown nuts, ready for the roasting on an open fire. Outside Viana do Castelo, I am met by an excuberant comapnion, a lively, black, pointy eared dog. I immediately think his name must be happy. He runs circles around me, showing me the way, sniffing and lifting his leg against every pillar, making sure to ma
rk the way. When I am too slow, he waits for me. If I look as if I might stop, he stops, watching me all the time. Happy walks with me for a few miles. Judging by his collar and condition, he has owners that take good care of him. I would hate for him to get lost… After a few miles however, he discovers new excitement when a group of mountain bikers come down a steep hill. Barking and jumping up and down, he joins the race. I watch him disappear with the very friendly group of bikers, never to be seen again. Not far from where Happy left, I come across a deserted villa, Quinta de Cabanas, with a chapel attached to it. It is the most magnificent structure, built on a stream, with the biggest Magnolia tree next to it that I have ever seen. There is a plaque on the wall with what looks like a poem, an ode to the Magnolia. I am intrigued by the place, the eery emptiness, the grandeur of it, the sadness that it is now empty, the dreams and hopes that are locked up behind the wooden shutters. It is hard to leave the house, I want to stay and wait, maybe someone will open a window and let me in, tell me story of a love gone wrong. Maybe a Miss. Havisham is sitting inside, waiting for her lost lover who never returned after the war. I am so intrigued by the Villa, that I lose sight of the yellow arrows. I come into a village, as deserted as only these villages can be, more so on a Sunday afternoon. Against all odds, an old woman, in her “national dress” of a sleeveless housecoat and slippers with socks comes wlaking down the street. I greet politely and ask her “Santiago? Caminho compestella?” Well, I have never seen such disbelief and astonishment. In her fastest Portuguese she tells me (and this is what I make up from the facial expressions, the tone and the wild gesturing) “Santiago? SANTIAGO? Are you mad? S-A-N-T-I-A-G-O is in SPAIN! You are in Portugal! You are miles and miles and miles away from SANTIAGO! How can you ask me such a stupid question? On a Sunday afternoon when I am out walking? SANTIAGO? Really?” Midst this avalanche I think it better to save her from a heart attack and to just turn around and walk back the way I came. As far as I walk, I can her utter disbelief being expressed: “Santiago? Mumble rumble rumble…” Minutes later I find the arrows again, taking me deeper and deeper into the forest. Just when I think it could not get any more intriguing, a new path opens up. With just the sound of the rain on my umbrella, my feet swooching through puddles, birds cavorting in the trees, it feels as if I am discovering a lost world, something time and people had forgotten about, a secret place of mystery and wonder. And then, all too suddenly, I am in a village on the sea! The rain has drizzled out to reveal a sparklingly washed what I assume is Caminha, my destination for the day. It is not after 16h00, I made it in good time, and since I have not eaten anything since the breadfast this morning, I decide to stop for my “meie de leite” and something to eat. A very grumpy lady behind the counter is reluctant to leave her crocheting to serve me, I put on all the charm I have and get a life saving cup of coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich. (It does seem that it is officially Portuguese, since it is all that is on offer in many of these small little places. Other than of course my addiction, but I needed something savoury). The coffee seems to be getting better and better as I travel north, and I have to have a second cup, which pleases Mrs. Grumpy to no end. I log onto the internet, and start looking at google maps to find the youth hostel. To my horror, I discover that I am not nearly in Caminha yet. In fact, I am 7,2km away from Caminha. At that moment, I am seriously tempted to grab her crochet blanket, pull it over my head and crawl under the table, crying like a baby. I switch the internet on and off again to make sure that it is not a mistake. Nope. 7,2 km to go. Well, that’s that. All you can do is get up and go. I am wet, cold, and my entire body is screaming at me to stop, have a hot bath and crawl into bed for the next six months. To cheer me up, the route takes my down to the beach. A young boy herding his goats and sheep is skillfully training his dog to help with this task. Something so simple – a shepherd. And yet in that moment I am in awe of this simplicity. A young boy on the Northern coast of Portugal, herding his flock. I decide to take a break and spread out on a wall next to (yet another) chapel, to just take in this moment and store it somewhere for the rest of my life.

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