Italy 2017

<![CDATA[

Darque, Portugal

So I am wide awake before 06h00 this morning, in spite of the gruelling 32 kms I walked yesterday. I have a few choices – I could get up and start the day (but it is still dark outside), I could try and go back to sleep (doesn’t work) or I could go for an early morning wallk (WHAT? – after all the walking I have done?). So I get up and go for a walk. The town is fast asleep (no different from any other time of day), except for the market area where people are setting up for the Saturday market. (Very small compared to Espinho). The walk along the estuary is stunning – loads of birds are out calling and announcing the new day. The sun rises in her best silver, dressed for the day, shedding light on the river, breathing life into the stone of the buildings.

I am ready for breakfast at 08h00. Not sure what I expected for 9 euro, but I end up having post toasties for the first time in many, many years. The coffee is like liquid tar, made blue with a touch of milk. I decide to just look out the window and focus on the beautiful morning. As I go up to my room to pack, I notive the guy I saw last night in the pub. So we were five people in the youth hostel. There was a (very trendy in comparison with me) looking French couple. I offered them my ONE slice of ham (polony) and ONE slice of cheese (chemical **** storm) at breakfast, they accepted as if I had just offered them my Lambourghini. Interestingly, they have been doing the caminho in reverse – started in Santiago and are going to Lisbon. They are actually a great couple when we start chatting in the huge diningroom that can seat about a 100 people. I tell them about the beautiful walk from Espinho to Porto, which they are very excited to hear.

I suddenly realise that without Brigadier Brierly (whom I detested to date) I have not the foggiest idea where to even start the next leg. So back to the French couple, who like me, actually have no idea where they were yesterday or how they got to Esposende. The guy eventually gets his wits together, and tells me “chust go right”. Hell yes. I leave the youth hostel and decide to just go right. In fact, I figure out that if the sun is over my right shoulder (the sun rises in the east) then I am heading north, which is what I want to do. With that bit of Voortrekker knowledge, I tackle the day. God be with me – for I am not even sure that that is right.

The walk again starts along the river – beautiful, graceful and gently in the early morning light, ducks paddling upstream with all their might. I cross the bridge, and am surprised at the waymarks that are bright and obvious. A few metres ahead of me, I see the guy who also stayed at the hostel. I decide to slow down to let him get a headstart. I then walk into Esposendo proper – a delightful seaside resort which is obviously in a different league. The way people are dressed, the shops and the cars tell a tale of affluence. In all the shops there are paintings exhibited of what I can only assume to be a famous local artist, who touchingly portrays the spirit of Portuguese life in his oil paintings. Minding my own business and just absorbing the atmosphere of this very different village, a man stops me. He is in his 70’s I would think, very handsome, wearing a well tailored white shirt with a white scarf, jeans and a pair of expensive brilliant red shoes. He asks if I am doing the Camhino, and when answering the affirmative he melts. His face softens, he smiles a gentle smile and asks how I am finding it. Of course I tell him what a wonderful experience it is. He did the northern route last year, and found it very, very difficult, The elevation and terrain was too hard for him, not to mention the humidity. (Again, I am so thankful that I decided to do this route). He is truly the most charming man, and when I leave he takes my hand in both his hands, wishing me the most sincere “bom caminho” that leaves me totally choked up. What a moment.

Just outside town I meet up with the youth hostel periegrino, Marco. He is German, soft spoken and gentle. We walk together for about fifteen minutes, before I decide to stop for coffee and let him get ahead again. I walk down to see the artificial sand dunes that were created (See the photographs) and have a coffee. On returning to the waymarked route, I am surprised that it takes me away from the sea. I walk through the suburbs, then up into the eucapyltus forrest. Every time I think we are heading back down to the sea, the route goes further up east again. It seems that I spend the day thinking that “now we are going to the ocean”, only to be led back up east again. About an hour later I again meet Marco – he is walking slowly (mostly because he has a massive backpack I think), and I cannot avoid having to walk with him. He is not a chatterbox, so we walk together in silence for long periods of time, both stopping at the same beautiful spots to take photographs. The route is high up against the coast, and even though one can see the ocean and feel the coolness of the ocean breeze, it is quite far away. There are magnificent rivers and streams that we cross. At one point, the rain starts pelting down, and we make for a church to find shelter. The church is closed, but we find a little shed in the graveyard in which people seem to be doing their flower arrangements for the graves. Saturday is obviously grave tending day – there are heaps of people coming into the graveyard to put the most exquisite flowers on the graves. While we are hiding from the driving rain, women are arranging flowers outside, cleaning the graves, watering plantes for their departed beloved. We stay inside for almost 45 minutes, by which time it seems the rain had gone past. Only about a 100 meters outside the graveyard, it starts pouring down again. We decide to be brave and just carry on.

Walking with someong else, however nice (which Marco is), somehow disturbs my equilibrium. I enjoy his company, but I just cannot get into my own rythm. Eventually (what felt like forever) we start seeing Viana do Castello, the town that we are going to stay in. Well, as we walk into the suburbs, the heavens open. We duck into a garage, and wait for a bit of a break. It does not stop. The man in the gargage shop shows me the weather report in the newspaper – it is going to rain for a few days. We wait – it rains more. There is hotel across the road from the garage – American movie type motel/hotel. We decide to call it a day and make a run for the hotel. It is actually listed on the Albergue listing we see on the door, and decide to call it a day. The rooms are large, bathroom with a bath, and we settle for the night. You win some, you lose some.

]]>

<![CDATA[

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.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Lavra, Portugal

I am intrigued by the initiation practices that I saw in both Coimbra and Porto. First year students are marched around the city by senior students. The latter are in full black dress and black tie, with black cloaks that they use to shield off onlookers by holding up the cloaks like a screen The first years wear branded T-shirts, and the lot I saw yesterday were all wearing paper hats that looked like donkey’s ears. They are made to sing, dance, chant and perform. Having some very strong opinions on these rituals at our universities back home, I am really surprised to see that it happens here as well. More surprising though is that in both Coimbra and Porto all these students then congregate in front of my hotel room to get drunk and party until 03h00 in the morning, making the most unbelievable noise and leaving an even more unbelievable mess of cigarettes, plastic beer cups, papers and kotsch on the pavement, which is then all cleaned up at 06h00 in the morning by the local cleaning up people. They use big lorries with those round broom-like things and high pressure hoses that are powered by even bigger generators on lorries. OK I will stop kvetching (for now) – but all this at 06h00 when the noise only stopped at 03h00.

The organ recital last night is by German wunderkind Axel Flierl in a massive concrete block of a modern church. The organ is newly built (2000) with some elements from a previous organ built by the Scot Peter Conacher. (Little bit of useless information). Thanks to the concrete and solid wood, roch-hard benches and marble tiles throughout the church, it has the most wonderful acoustics. Opening with a Fantasie and Fugue of Bach, the full power and glory of the instrument reverberates through the very marrow of your bones. If this does not stir your soul, you do not have a soul. For me, classical music it the true “personification” or manifestation of the mystery of the universe. I do believe that the grandeur of architecture is an attempt perhaps to “vergestalt” the mystery. Whilst quite extraordinary to see nowadays, it is such a sad and miserable failure if that was indeed the intention. The program of Bach, Liszt, Franck, Mozart and Landmann is such a privilege to experience. Like so many times on this journey I feel so perfectly content and in tune with the universe, experiencing the perfect harmony with and through the music. (My only wish at that moment is to be able to tap into this being when I am back home again and the pawpaw is making its way to the fan).

I decide (against my will) to follow old Brierly’s advice and take the metro to Matasinhos, near the Porto harbour, from where the coastal journey starts. I am very much in two minds about whether to take the coastal or the interior route, knowing that for some parts of the coastal route it seems that I will have to walk on the beach. Now while I love walking on the beach, I am not so sure what it will do with a backpack and in the heat of the day. Last night I decided to do whatever comes into my mind first thing in the morning (well second thing, first things is always “I miss my Nespresso”). SO the coastal route it will be. Another blue sky perfect day, it seems the right thing to do. The route goes over a massive drawbridge, down the street and you are on the beach. Just as you arrive at the promenade, there is a sign that you can get a stamp for the Compostella. I ask the lady how many people do this route, and am suprised when she says I am the first one today (it was already 09h30) and that usually she sees about five people a day. Obviously the road less travelled. Could be good, could be bad, could just be. (The song this morning just happens to be “When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me… Let it be, let it beeeeeee….). So I will let it be. Waves that look a mile long break in slowmotion onto white sandy beaches. Surfers are out, dog stollers stroll, joggers jog and old men sit. The coast is rich in history which is communicated on plagues all along the boardwalk. Idyllic little restaurants varying in their style – from very simple to the most stylish jetset type hangout places – are dotted all along the walk. Of course the temptation to stop and just sit is there. But the journey must continue. One day I will come back and sit here for a long time. Maybe even forever.

In Porto I discovered an art shop, not nearly as exciting as the one Kobie showed me in Melbourne, but exciting never the less. Today was the type of day that needed to be sketched or painted. Elegant brush strokes of watercolour on rough paper with a steady hand to give expression to the waves crashing down on the beach. Because word and photographs again cannot do justice to this poetry in motion. It needs colour and movement and descriptions that go beyond the ordinary. The type of magnificence that stops you in your tracks. Minutes later you realise that you actually stopped breathing in fear of this moment passing with an out breath. Wanting so desperately to hang on to the magic, that wonderment of nature in all her glory, powerful, subtle, exploding, gentle. In the rolling and crashing of the waves I find the deepest sense of calm, a total contradiction. The comfort of tides, the knowing that the tide will rise and fall, tomorrow the sun will rise at exactly the second that it should. That seasons will come and go. The rain will fall, the leaves will turn, the harvest will mature, the storks will fly from South Africa to Turkey. Every year, “religously”, without the slightest help from mankind. We can build our churches and sing our hymns, it will make no difference to the perfect rythm of nature.

What Brother Brierly does not know, is that since he wrote his little guidebook (hahaha) the Portuguese have actually completed the boardwalk all the way from Porto to Vila do Conde. A pristine, brand new (what looks like Balau) walkway over the precious dunes, with loads of signage explaining the fauna and flora of each area. And more and more dune restoration to build new, stronger dunes. So for 21,87 kms I walk on sturdy, new boardwalks, the mighty ocean crashing on the one side, village life in all its mutations happening on the other. From the grandest of seaside apartment blocks to the smallest of stone fishermen cottages, the route just ambles along the coast, truly undisturbed by my presence. The walk into Vila do Conde is overpowered by the majestic presence of the convent of Santa Clara (1318), a massive block in white with the by now familiar sandstone edging around the windows. This one is adourned with beautiful urns on top of the roof.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Porto, Portugal

Just a few days ago I bragged about the fact that I do not get hangovers. That was before my liver collided with two Dutchmen at a street cafe selling delicious tapas. It started all innocent with “may we sit down here?” Now for days I have been avoiding conversations that go anything beyond “bon dia” or obbrigado. In fact, since Ron and Blanca left I have not spoken to another human being. Except for myself, and with the hangover I had this morning I did not qualify for being human. We shared tapas, and I drank red wine. In fact, I was on my way to an organ recital as there is an international organ festival happening in Porto, and I love organ music. (I was in one of the churches yesterday where they were busy tuning an organ. Well, I think the angels and Jesus and Mary and all the disciples, rats, mice and bats left the church for the day. I have NEVER heard such a noise!) But back to the Dutchmen – they design shoes under the brand “Wednesday Whiskey”. These shoes are made in Portugal, renowned for their shoe-making (and cheap labour I find out later).

I am not sure if I was catching up on lost conversation (I have been accused of loving the sound of my own voice) or if it was just particularly good conversation (they were really nice guys), but before I knew it I had kuiered myself right through an organ recital. And into my bed, dead to the world. I did notice a group of students outside, singing and looking even worse for wear than me. The next thing, those world famous hangover jackhammers woke me up, accompanied by the taste in the mouth like a sewer rat had nested there six months ago. Of course I smoked two cigarettes for the first time in months, of course of course. No amount of water or disgusting “fruit” juice at breakfast could quench the thirst. My head was pounding so badly that I could not dare put my hat on, it was just too painful. And I had a day of walking ahead of me. And no Myprodol. Pharmacy, medication, feeling sorry for myself, little snooze on the train to Espinho did not help. (Judging by the huge mess outside the hotel this morning, there were a number of students that felt worse than me I am sure this morning. It seems to be that there is a new intake of students at present. I also met them in Coimbra).

Espinho is about half an hour south of Porto by train. It is a really interesting little town, with a beautiful seafront promenade where life happens in an interesting cascade from north to south. In the north there is a huge casino, olympic swimming pool, very fancy Sea Point like apartments. As one goes south (as things do inevitably) it gets more like Strand, then the old part of Muizenberg, until the village spills over into a fishermen’s little hamlet, complete with fishwives and stray dogs, boats that seem to not be seaworthy, old men with self inflicted tattoos and the odd prostitue. (Really odd in that her skin looks like leather, hair peroxide, tight jeans and that “come to mama” look on her face). Toothless men stare, trying to avoid their wives seeing their interest. Wives here are selling the sardines of the day – sandy, dirty, scaly little fish that smell like fish that haven been out of the ocean for too long. There is a buzz, people shouting, dogs barking, and the women selling the fish had long ago given up washing their hands. They are simply wiped on the terralene aprons that seem to be the national dress of working class women in Portugal. I don’t dare to take photographs here, the men just look to scary. Whilst I walk, what looks like a practiced drug deal takes place. The cars are low, the mood lower. Men sit on the sidewalk waiting for – well all I can think of is waiting for God(ot). The houses are minute, huddled together in a very tightly knit community. On the beach a tractor pulls in a sardine net, all the women waddle down across the beach to see what the sea has delivered. Judging by the loud conversation it was a good pull. The tractor almost gets stuck in the sand to the loud protestations of the men. There are no children in sight.

I resist the temptation to go back to my favourite bakery for a pastel nata. (To be honest, the thought of coffee makes me feel green). So I start my walk. It is a chilly, crisp clear morning, and everyone is out on their morning walk. Interesting to see how many people are out exercising – it could have been Sea Point promenade. Even with the odd Bergie who slept out last night trying to thaw in the morning sun. The boardwalk starts at the end of the Espinho promenade and continues for 15 kilometers. Today it feels as if I am walking the big wall of China! I am so ecstatic that the dunes are being preserved in such a sensible way. There are wooden cages built all along the boardwalk to preserve the dunes. I eventually figure out how this works – these cages catch the sand without blocking it, and eventually a solid new dune is formed, with plants and all. The beaches are clean, soft sand, curling waves being blown in the morning breeze. Cyclists and joggers and walkers make use of the boardwalk in a clattering of wood under feet and bicycle tyres. The landscape of building change from village to village, from real seaside resort type houses to again the tiniest of little fishermen cottages, huddled together, built for purpose and not for the enjoyment of the ocean judging by the way they face inland. Dogs are playing on the beach, obviously they have owners who keep them for pets and not for guards. The boardwalk is pristinely maintained. At one point where the sand blew over the slats, a group of men are diligently clearing away the sand. This is an obvious pride int his boardwalk for the locals.

By now my headache is just about gone, and just as well because I really need my hat against the sun. It is a perfect day, soft breeze gently blowing puffs of water off the waves. At Vila Nova de Gaia I stop at one of the many seaside cafes, no longer being able to resist my pastel nata obsession. And it does not disappoint. Paperthin layers of puff pastry holding together the creamiest of baked custard, not stodgy, not runny, just perfect. The other attraction here is the little chapel built out on the beach, right on the rocks. I am constantly amazed at the diligence of the Catholics in building shrines and temples and chapels to their saints. Even though it makes absolutely no sense to me why they would do this, the shere beauty of the architecture cannot be denied. Porto lies in the distance, a haze of smog covering the city. And when I say in the distance, I mean in the distance. Seeing one’s destination is not always a good thing – it somehow just does not seem to be getting closer. Even though I am walking without my backpack, it is a long trek. And even though the boardwalk is soft under foot, it is eating away at my shins, a good excuse to stop for the first beer of the day.

Walking into Porto, a very disconcerting thing happened. The entire city had turned around. What was on the east bank is now on the south and vice versa. The cloister I visited yesterday had literally jumped to the other side of the river. I am totally mesmerized. A miracle. Porto will be the new Fatima where the miracle of the switch happened while I was away. Oh hell. All it means is that my sense of direction really truly sucks. (But Brierly is still a terrible guide!). The walk along the estuary of the Douro is so soothing to the soul, this massive river with her rich history gently flowing to the sea, taking with her all the debris of a restless city that will end up on distant shores. Maybe even Cape Town. And the South of Porto is as fascinating as that of Esphino. Fishermen mending nets, catching fish off the bridge. At a distance I watch one of them sewing his net with such grace and fluency that I am completely trapped, I cannot move. And he does not look up, as focused as I am transported by his skill. A little meditation, right there. And then there is the public washhouse. I have seen these in every little village. Here, about 2km outside of Porto, the village life is taking place undisturbed by the big world ci
ty right next door. I stop and look into the washhouse, to the great amusement of the women scrubbing and beating their heavy carpets drenched in soap against the ********crete surface. Outside, on make-shift washing lines, the clothes like flags of navy ships are blustering in the wind. Just another day in downtown Porto.

By the time I actually get into Porto, 24 kms later, I am beyond exhausted. Maybe not so much from the walk as from all the images and sounds and smells and thoughts and precious moments that filled the day. A beer and a snooze will suffice, as tonight I am not missing the organ recital.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Porto, Portugal

Lupines that need to be sucked out of their shell, olives in coarse salt, fine white beans with crispy onion and parsley, a round of goat’s milk cheese with parma ham, drizzled with spicy honey served with fresh Portuguese bread, sliced carrots in a spicy caraway sauce, and a jug (a real jug this time) of red wine. On a sidewalk in Porto. Luscious, sensual Porto. Today I realised what a difference it makes if a city has a river. A real river (not like the Liesbeek…) that flows voluptuously through the city. Like Prague and Paris (and Porto). There is something incredibly feminine about a river flowing strong, carrying boats and vessels and cargo.

So my rest day in Espinho really restored my body – and did something quite extraordinary to my soul. I am not sure what – but suffice to say that I discovered the article by Ponte, who just HAPPENS so be Portuguese and who just HAPPENS to be in one of the villages that I will be walking through on the Caminho. And he just HAPPENS to talk about Suadade – a term used by the Portuguese which Helen de Pinho and I talked about earlier that day, and he just HAPPENS to talk about mysticism and synchronicity.

There is no train back to Velhada from where I left the Caminho trail to Espinho. So I either have to walk back to Velhada (no bloody way) or take the train to Porto. I settle for the latter. (Woe be upon me for leaving the path. Whatever…). The trainride is such a pleasure – literally hugging the coast all the way to Porto. When I get to Porto I go onto Google Maps, and see that there is an acutal boardwalk that goes all the way from Espinho to Porto. So – mind made up, tomorrow I take the train back to Espinho (maybe have a coffee and a pastel nata) and then walk my own path along the ocean to Porto. Sometimes one just has to take a detour. Make your own path. Leave the known road to travel your own path. All that stuff.

Porto is even more beautiful than what I remember. It is alive, vibrant, filled with contrasts of rich and poor, old and new, foreign and local. Up and down the river like an ever flowing presence in its glittering glory. I take the cable car up to the monastery, walk across the bridge, up and down the narrow little streets between tourist traps and locals hanging out their washing. I get a hotel with a private room. At this stage, I have not spoken to another human being (I spoke to a very scary ghost in my sleep last night) for three days. Bliss. I have not desire to meet other pilgrims and do the “kumbaya my lord” ritual. I treasure the time alone, my own thoughts and own experiences, not tainted by anyone else. Perhaps a bit narcissistic? Who cares? I am totally inspired by my time alone. Far from the “maddening” crowd, specially for you Sara Mills!

So after tomorrow starts the second part of the Caminho – along the coast (at bloody last) of Portugal. Up to now, there has been some very trying times. The heat, the flies, the stretches without shade or water.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Espinho, Portugal

There are very few things that excite me more (well, with the exception of Africa Burn maybe) than market day in small European cities. And as my luck would have it, Monday is market day in Espinho. Last night as I walked back to the apartment, the vendors were setting up already, clanging, banging and hammering make-shift stands and awnings to protect and display their precious produce. I assume most of them would actually spend the night unpacking, to be ready for their first customers at the crack of dawn.

I arrive at 9h30 and the square has exploded in a cacophony of colours, sights, smells and sounds. The place has come alive with hundreds of people, a meeting place of friends and surely foes, judging by the competition between farmers to sell the hard earned fruits of their labour. Strong competition between the brightest tomatoes and the most voluptuous peaches. And now I see all those people living behind closed windows and shutters, going about their marketing like bees in a hive. This is serious business, plums are felt and grapes are smelled, watermelons knocked and figs pinched. This opportunity only comes once a week, it is important to make the right decision!

And now, meeting the people of the land, my heart swells with endearment and respect. I see again those knuckled hands – worn, calloused, cracked, strong and certainly painful with athritis. A lifetime of working the land in the map of wrinkles on sunburnt faces, always ready to smile in spite of missing teeth. There is something movingly honest and real in this place. In between the bargaining and bickering, businessing and buying, there is time for a coffee and pastel nata. I wonder what time has been spent on producing the endless range of breads and pastries, cheeses and cured meats. The labour of love in small biscuits, lovingly draped in dark chocolate.

Proteas abound, styled daisy bushes, nuts, pulses, orchids, quince and kiwi and carrots. I look like a freshly plucked butter lettuce myself in my green jacket, but I am sublimely elevated to a place of pure joy and ecstacy. I smile and get the most beautiful “bon dias” in return. Between umbrellas and birds in cages – pigeons, finch, budgies, pheasant, chickens, ducks, geese – all cackling colour and sound nervously scratching around in tiny cages – I am hypnotically mesmerized. I am sure this is what it must feel like to be in an opium den – surreal mixture of fantasy and fiction. Only this is real, tangibly real and honest and good. I am filled with memories of my own Oupa Moos, gardener per excellence.

Oupa Moos had two gardens on their plot outside Knysna – one for the “English” and one for us. In the English garden were all sorts of different lettuce (we only ate iceberg). And greenpeppers, leeks, radishes, broccoli, brussel sprouts, broad beans, parsnips and turnips were for “them”. (Oupa also went to the market on Leisure Isle to sell his produce. There were mostly English people living there). And on our side of the garden were cauliflower, beetroot, carrots, cabbage, potatoes. I loved beetroot. When I was very small my standard request for supper was “beetroot and tea please”. One Satruday when my parents took my grandparents to town, my sister, Mildred and Elizabeth Jonck (twins) and I decided to cook our own food. We had a wonderful treehouse in the willow tree that stood between the house and the vegetable garden. (We were usually not allowed in the garden, other than to take Oupa his afternoon coffee and a sandwich). I discovered the beetroot! This was so exciting, I could have beetroot without having to wait for someone to give it to me. I pulled one out of the soil, washed it and bit into it, not knowing that it takes quite some time to cook beetroot! (We only ever ate cold beetroot, hence my thinking that it can be eaten as is). What a shock. I then discovered the primus stove ritual in the little lean-to annex to my Gran’s kitchen, where miracles happened. On the tiny primus, that had to be lit with a strange gadget that looked like a miniature whisk that was dipped in blue spirits, in a huge pot, Gran cooked beetroot that seemed like forever. This would be cooled down, peeled and turned into my favourite dish in all the world, beetroot salad! WIth onions and vinegar and loads of sugar. Sliced, not grated. And on Sundays when we went to Greenhole for picnics with the Joncks, this would be my favourite part of the meal. And yes I loved it when the red beetroot juice mixed with the cold chicken and potato salad. And we would all lie on blankets, listening to funny stories exchanged between Ouma Bettie and Tannie Jeanie. Most of these stories we were not supposed to hear, because they were inevitably not for the ears of kids. But on a picnic outing it did not matter. And we would swim in the river, feed the swans and get sunburnt. Life was good back then without the hole in the ozone. And life would stand still, we would not have a worry in the world.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Espinho, Portugal

What a wonderful surprise to get a message from our Portuguese friend Helen de Pinho to say that she has an apartment just south of Porto – if I want I could stay there for a few days. Espinho is on the coast, and I decide to absolutely take her up on her offer. Peace and quiet. My night in the hotel was a nightmare. I cannot for the life of me believe how thin the walls could be. At 22h00 a group of Portuguese guests arrived. The were welcomed with loud greetings as if they are long lost friends not seen for years. Dragging suitcases and hatboxes and trunks and God knows what up the stairs past my bedroom, then re-arranging the furniture to suit their needs, then stomping up and down the stairs (with what sounded like Dutch clogs), until I eventually succumbed to putting in my earplugs. (It is very difficult for me to sleep with the earplugs, as it feels as if someone is trying to clean my ears with a cricket bat. Every time I turn around, I wake up). Anyway, they work and eventually I fall asleep with the sound of my own “heavy breathing” ringing in my head.

The hotel key is metal, attached to a metal ring which holds a metal plate the size of a playing card. At 02h00 (I had to take out the earplugs as they are really uncomfortable) my neighbour is trying to get into his bedroom. Try as he may, he cannot get the door open. The key and chain and metal plate clanging and dangling and metalling against the door, to no avail. The door will not open. What he obviously does not know, is that to open the door there is a button that needs to be pushed once you have unlocked it. So he fiddles and clangs and bangs and clangs and metals until I think I am going to actually explode. Eventually I get up, get dressed, go outside and unlocks the door for him. At this very point I realised that I am the Dalai Lama. I have evolved after twelve days of walking the Caminho to become calm, forgiving and kind.

At 03h30, I am woken up by the loud sound of water dripping – a slow, loud, definite drip. I put the earplugs in again. Seconds later I am woken by my own “heavy” breathing. Earplugs out. Dripping. Ok, I get up to try and find the dripping. This entails drawing up the shutters (something akin to a drawbridge in a medieval castle), opening the windows (which is not as easy as one would think) and finding the drip in the shaft outside my window, where thanks to heavy rain the water is now dripping off a blocked gutter onto my window sill. I go to the bathroom, fold a towel and put it onto the window sill. Close window, close shutter, let’s try again. Earplugs in, deep this time, even though it feels as if someone has now taken the cricket bat and is turning it around inside my ear. I am however so tired, that I eventually fall asleep and wake up at 10h00! (Earplugs somewhere in the bed next to me).

I go to find breakfast, an exciting array of breadrolls and a croissant that is actually just a sweet breadroll in disguise. At least the coffee is strong. It is raining, literally, the cats and dogs type. I take my time packing in the hope that it will subside. It doesn’t. Eventually I leave the hotel in my raingear. Five minutes later I am yet again in my “sweat suit”. I cannot believe how hot it gets in this rain jacket and pants – literally like walking in your own little sauna. Well, that is how it will be today. I envision how much weight I will lose with all this sweating. Thing is, it is really really uncomfortable in my many ways. There is nothing I can do about it however, so I just walk. Mind over matter.

The road is dreary – backstreets of industrial parks and suburbia. I stop for coffee a few times, enjoying the company of locals who obviously use Sundays as family time. They are all out in the their Sunday best, extended families enjoying their day together. The aim is to catch a bus from Vergada to Espinho. I walk into Vergana, wet to the bone, and am extremely fortunate to find out that the next bus will be at 16h15, from right across the restaurant. I have enough time for a beer, which after all the perspiration I think is the sensible thing to consume. At 16h02 I cross the road to the bus stop, knowing how European public transport is always on time. At the bus stop, I am suprised to see a man that earlier in the day was at one of the restaurants I stopped at. That was a few hours ago, and he was drunk out of his bracket. He has about six bottom teeth, all of them rotten beyond repair. He is one those jovial drunk people. He insisted on shaking my hand, and having long conversations with me in spite of my indicating that I do not understand a word he says. He kept on – going through “Francais?” then “Spanish?” then “Italiano?” etc. I just shook my head, having no desire what so ever to speak to him. Well, here he was again, just a few glasses drunker than a few hours ago. It was like to return of the prodigal son, if I did not protest he would have kissed me with his little rotten teeth and all. This time there was a woman with him, trying her best to ignore him. They had several bags and suitcases, and he was on top form. Every few minutes he would phone someone, speaking as loud as he possibly could, performing like only a drunk man could. When he hung up, he again went through the language ritual with me. I shook my head. All this time the rain was pelting down, and there was only place for one person under the bus shelter, so him and I were on either side of the woman. She was smoking one cigarette after the other, not interested in his story at all. In between his telephone calls and trying to converse with me, he would have hectic arguments with her. We waited for 45 minutes in the pouring rain with this little circus playing out. No bus. Just before 17h00 a car stopped and picked them up – I wanted to do the “singing in the rain” interlude from pure relief that I was saved from having to spend another minute with this lunatic.

Just after five I decided that I cannot sit in the rain any longer, beginning to wonder what the hell I am doing here after all. I have a house and a car and a life – here I am sitting at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain. Have I lost my mind? SO – I decide to hit the road and start walking. I could manage a bit of internet at the cafe which told me it would be a 2 hour walk to Espinho. No problem. Only problem was that there were no yellow arrows to Espinho, and I had no idea how to get there. I saw some signs which quickly brought me to a highway, where it was clearly indicated that human beings are not allowed to walk. I was stuffed. I decided to simply follow my instincts and start walking. Eventually I got to a biggish town, where a friendly waitress spoke english and told me that she will order me a taxi to get to Espinho. And here I am. Safe and sound.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Oliveira de Azeméis, Portugal

So met die stap vandag dink ek weer aan gisteraand. DIe “toeval” van ‘n fisio reg in die hoofstraat. Meer daaroor later. So met die insleep/sukkel/wroeg/vloek in die dorp in (weereens is die bleddie dorp op die hoogste bult in die distrik gebou) kan enige mens op my gesig sien “los uit”. Tien tree in die hoofstraat af en ‘n man met ‘n ou, blonde Labrador stap reg op my af en vra “German?”. Ek vererg my inniglik – wat op aarde sou hom na my laat kyk en dink ek is Duits? Blond? Blou oë? Verwaand? (Tong in die kies). Steeds met ‘n bedonnerde uitdrukking së ek “nee” en wil net verder stap toe hy baie innemend verneem na my herkoms, en voor ek my kom kry gesels hy. Ek luister, so moeg dat daar nie genoeg spoeg in my mond is om ‘n woord te vorm nie. Hy is Duits/Pools, het die Caminho ses jaar gelede gedoen en hier vasgehaak (in die stadium weet ek nog nie eers waar “hier” is nie), en sedertdien woon en werk hy hier en is baie gelukkig. En al wat deur my kop gaan is “jirre meneer ek gaan omval as jy nie nou ophou nie”. Hy sien seker die uitdrukking op my gesig en wys na die hotel. Die groot een agter my – wat ‘n spesiale aanbod vir pelgrims het. Ek draai in my spore om (het vroeg al besluit vanaand is dit ek en ‘n hotel) en wuif vriendelik dog ferm dankie.

Twee ure later toe ek die strate tref op soek na sterk drank, wie sal ek raakloop? Meneer. Soos my ouma sou se “is hy nou nie eintlik ‘n oil painting nie” maar het te vertel dat hy elke dag hier stap met die ou kranklike hond “to pick up the Portuguese girls”. Wel ek dog ek val om – die hond wat moet chicks optel is kranklik, mank, oud en het ‘n moerse vetklier op sy rug. Hy wankel van paal tot paal en pie drie druppels. Wragtag die enigste girls wat hulle twee gaan optel is seker die SPCA. Maar ja, laat die hoop nie beskaam nie. Ek ontsnap, en sien die fisio. Dis na sewe, maar siende dat mense hier mos smiddae siesta werk hulle saans laat. Ek gaan in, maar die boek is vol geskryf. Die baie vriendelike dame wat nie een woord engels praat nie wys “WAG” – en kom met ‘n man uit ‘n ander vertrek. Hulle kyk na die boek, kyk na my. Ek gebruik my beste gebaretaal met die nodige geluide om te wys in hoeveel ondraaglike pyn ek verkeer. Die boek bly vol, maak hy my attent. Met nog pynvolle uitdrukkings en maak asof ek binne oomblikke gaan omval, wys hy dié keer: “WAG”. Sy wys dat hy gaan bel en kyk of hy iets kan skuif in die boek. (Dis hulle dagboek met die bespreking, en sowaar, die boek is vol geskryf om die uur. G’n wonder nie, dis oor hulle so bo-op die berg bly. Geen mens se rug of knieë kan dit hou nie). Hier kom hy terug, swaarmoedige uitdrukking op die gesig, nee niemand kan geskuif word nie lei ek af. Hy dink diep, kou aan die pen, en wys toe dat ek 20h15 kan hom. Dit het gewerk. Ek moet meer Charades speel…

20h10 klok ek in. Die kamertjie is klein, en altwee is daar vir die ontvangs. Klere uit – onderbroek aan. Lê. Nou kom die verduidelik. Ons besluit op Google Translate met haar foon, waarvan se skerm in duisend stukkies is. Ek sidder. So tik ek in om vir hulle te sê dat my heup baie seer is, maar ek dink dit is my “glut” spier. Die oomblik toe ek die foon oorhandig gaan staan my hart amper. Ons almal ken Google Translate – wat as ek nou net vir hulle getik het “my sphincter is seer”? Hoe sal ek weet wat Google met my frase maak? Genadiglik is daar geen geskokte reaksie nie en word ek nie summier uit die plek gejaag nie. Ek lê. Daar is nie ‘n gat in die bed waar mens se kop kan deur nie, so ek lê soos ‘n rofstoeier wat platgedruk word deur sy opponent, genadiglik is die een neusgat wat in die lug is oop, en kan ek asem haal. Natuurlik kry ek binne minute ‘n kramp in my nek en moet ek omdraai. Aangesien hulle ook altwee met ‘n verkouetjie sukkel en gedurig snuif moet ek maar die ander neusgat skoonmaak met ‘n diep agteruit teug. Dit werk. Ek kry asem. En soveel as wat ek my bedenkinge oor die opset het, werk die twee besonder hard aan my seer, stukkende lyf. Met olies en goed wat eers warm dan koud is en wie weet wat nog alles. Ek draai maar so van die een neusgat na die ander.

Dan kom die omdraai. Die mannetjie vou ‘n handdoek en sit dit om my kop, agter my nek, en begin trek. Ek sien al hoe glip die handdoek uit en val hy hom des moers teen die agterste muur, so ek trek terug en hou my nek krom. Die probleem is dat in die proses hy my oor verkeerd om gevou het. So elke keer as hy met mening trek is ek oortuig hy gaan my oor afskeur en gaan ek vir die res van die stap soos Van Gogh met ‘n verband om een helfte van my kop moet loop. Ek sien al hoe moet ek dit in my eerste ACVV Beheerraadsvergadering verduidelik. So trek en pluk en vryf en smeer en knie hulle. Die kwyl loop ‘n groot nat kol op die bed. Ek is te in vervoering om om te gee. Toe ek daar uitstap voel ek soos ‘n bloedjong man. Hup in die stap, reg vir die volgende paar honderd kilometer. Nou moet ek gaan kos soek.

Ek loop met voorbedagte rade ‘n ander pad vir net ingeval die Labrador en sy baas nog steeds op straat is. “Mark my words”. Dié keer het hy nog ‘n Portuguese chickopteller by hom. ‘n Basset, so oud soos Metusaleg, die ore het al eelte op van jare se sleep op die grond, die oë bloedbelope en die maag swaaiend van links na regs. En hulle peil op my af – nuwe beste vriende. My moed sak in my skoene. Ek verduidelik vinnig ek moet gaan eet, hy weet natuurlik waar en sal my gaan wys. Ek is reg om op my eie, salig rustig en stil die wêreld te sit en bewonder, en het wragtag nie lus vir enige geselskap nie. Maar nee, hier gaat ons. (My vriendin Retseh het altyd gese “jy weet Rayne, die Here hardloop nie uit my planne uit om my te fnuik nie. Mens sou dink Hy het wêreld oorloë om Homself mee besig te hou, maar nee. Hy sien kans vir plannetjies uitdink vir my”. Dan lag ons ons gatte af. Sy wou hê dat op haar graf moet staan “finaal gefnuik”, maar haar kinders het daarteen besluit.) Gelukkig vir my loop meneer ander vriende raak en los my in vrede, maar nie sonder aanbeveling dat ek die een of ander plaaslike spesialiteit moet eet nie.

(Franchesinhas). Ek laat my nie tweekeer nooi nie, en kry ‘n sopbord met wat lyk soos tamatiesop, met ‘n doubledeckerdagwood wat binne in sit. En natuurlik die tradisionele bord chips. (Hulle chips is heerlik!). Die sous is (glo dit as jy wil) een of ander seekosrige sous, alhoewel ek dink daar is net anchovy in die basis. Dit is heerlik, veral as mens die chips in die sous week en dan eet. Die broodjie het op: ham, kaas, steak, polonie, weense worsie, hoender, mushrooms, en bacon. Sowaar die vader, al daai! Met ‘n paar glase wyn saam is dit ‘n fees. Daar is honderde jongmense op straat wat vreeslik raas en skree en tekere gaan, ek is dankbaar vir “double glazing” toe ek my hoteldeur toemaak. En meer dankbaar dat ek nie weer die man met die honde moes konfronteer nie.

Ek slaap vir 10 ure vas, en skrik letterlik tien voor tien wakker! In ‘n dwaal jaag ek af eetkamer toe om nie die ontbyt te mis nie. Wat regtig vreemd is is dat ek glad nie honger voel terwyl ek stap nie, maar sit kos voor my neer en ek vergryp my. So vreet ek ‘n pad deur die hotel ontbytbuffet soos ‘n swerm sprinkane nie ‘n groenteland kan verwoes nie. Ek stop in: bacon, wors, brood, kaas, marmelade, ham, spanspek, koffie na koffie (het mos nou die regte frase op my foon om sterk, warm koffie te bestel). En pastel nata. Weer daardie kleintjies wat so heel in ‘n mens se mond inpas. Vir die eerste keer is daar “vars” lemoensap (daar is lemoenselletjies in) en ek drink soos iemand wat ‘n erge na-dors het. Inteendeel, ek eet myself so moeg dat ek eers weer bietjie op die bed moet gaan lê om te herstel. Gelukkig is “check-out” eers 12h00. Teen die tyd dat ek my kop by die deur uitsteek (die wonderlike ding is dat as mens so lank geslaap het is jou sokkies droog) sien ek dit reën. Daar is ernstige interne konflik of ek moet loop en of ek nog ‘n dag moet bly. Die hotel is effens duur, en ek besluit om in die pad te val. Ek het mos “rain gear”. Gelukkig trek die reën voor my uit, en laat net ‘n salige
koel luggie. Wetende dat ek net 10km het, is die stap salig. Voor ek my kom kry is ek in Sao Joao de Almeida. Sonder enige hulp van die eenvoudige Brierly, dankie. Ek sien die Solario, maar dink dit is ‘n sonbed studio, tot ek besef dit is ‘n Albergue. Ja hulle het ‘n kamer, met die hulp van ‘n jong student wat baie goed engels praat en droom om Amerika toe te gaan. “Because people are so open in America”. Ek dog ja my kind, ek het nuus vir jou. Gaan maar. Sien vir jouself.

My kamer is regtig weereens soos iets uit ‘n fliek – daardie roadside motels waar Thelma en Louise hulleself bevind. Die bad het plek of vir my bolyf of vir my onderlyf, mens moet beurte maak. Die venster maak oop op ‘n sentrale skag. Maar dis skoon, dis ‘n dubbelbed en daar is ontbyt ingesluit. Juig al wat leef. Na ‘n lang, warm bad waar ek beurte maak om of my bene of my rug onder water te hou, durf ek die dorp aan. Dit is grafstil. Daar is ‘n paar ouer mense in die kaffees wat koffie drink, vir die res nie ‘n siel op straat nie. Ek soek ‘n plek met kos. Niks. Kry later iets, maar hulle begin eers 19h00 kos bedien. Wel, dan moet ek maar drink – en daar is Sangria.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Oliveira de Azemeis, Portugal

There is now open warfare between Brierly and myself. But we will get to that…

Sitting on the square last night having a coffee under the umbrellas, I am eternally greatful that the next stage is only 16kms. A welcome break. The Albergue I chose is almost 2km out of town, but having seen the umbrellas as I walked in, I had to walk all the way back to town to cure my curiosity, sore hip or not. The room at the Inn was truly the smallest little cubicle I have ever stayed in, and trust me, I have stayed in some small cubicles. Getting to sit down on the loo was a contortionists dream – between amputating your leg against the bogroll holder, having to open your legs as wide as possible to close the door and maneuver yourself onto the seat without breaking the shower door was really someting – especially when you can hardly bend your knees thanks to the day’s walking… Anyway, it was clean, with tiny little details that made it very special. Add to that a washing line in the sun and the prospect of clean underpants and I was a happy camper.

Down in the village I had just finished my coffee when I heard a familiar “peregrino!!!’. Ron and Blanca were in town as well! How great to see them again and catch up over beers and pastries that really looked like flattened, stuffed rats. (And tasted similar!). We decide to go out together and found the quaintest little bistro with an open fire roast. The pork ribs were recommended – and they were delicious, served with the by now familiar chips, rice and crispy fresh green salad. Still not a vegetable in sight! After two bottels of ice cold red wine, it was a great evening of sharing stories. I decide to take a cab back, as my hip is still playing up badly! My little cell. The bed is so tiny that it feels as if I should get up in order to turn around. Between the sore hip and back, neighbourhood dogs barking and leaving a tremendous echo to reverberate through the valley, I don’t get much sleep. At 06h00 some industrious peregrino decides to get up and walk above my bed with what sounds like Dutch wooden clogs. Ok – so that means no more sleep. As the extent of my sense of humour is usually directly related to the amount of sleep I get, I can see that this is going to be a long day of singing “Rus my siel jou God is koning….”.

The day starts with a good stretch on the busy N1, with all the early morning traffic coming straight at me. To make up for the lack of sleep, I at least got a good double espresso and some great breakfast at the Albergue. No sense of humour yet, but at least the caffiene kicked my ass a bit. I am really amazed at how many people are driving and texting, having a good view of the oncoming traffic as I battle up the hill first thing in the morning. At the first crossing I bump into Ron and Blanca again – I have been saying how weird it is that I don’t see any other pilgrims! They seem to have seen quite a few and been chatting to them. We start walking together, but I very soon see that these two are really hoovering it! Blanca is like a machine, even though she has a backpack the size of a double diff Oshkosh truck on her back, and a just smaller one in front! Within minutes they are a speck on the horizon, while I take photographs and meander through the streets.

Friday seems to be house cleaning day in Portugal – suddenly all the windows and shutters are open, duvets and carpets hanging out to air, and housewives are busy sweeping and hosing down their yards. The route takes me through some more small villages, but mostly through eucalyptus plantations. Suddenly there are groups of Fatima pilgrims going the other way – friendly waves are exchanged and shouts of “boa viage” abound. These pilgrims are also walking so fast!! The landscape is not really changing, I stop often to admire the richness of the countryside covered in fruit trees, and the most prolific Kiwi fruit plantations, covered in fruit. I also see a number or proteas – now again, my ignorance, but I honestly thought they only grew in South Africa!

My friend Brierly. I have decided (as only I can) that the man is a pompous ass and that he has never walked the Caminho. (Ron agrees with me). I cannot for the life of me follow his directions. He is about as clear in his description of the road as Jacob Zuma is in an opening of parliament speech. I read his instructions over and over, and am none the wiser. I think I know where I am, only to find out two hours later that I am now only where I thougth I was two hours ago. I sit down, put on my glasses (huge pain in the ass switching between reading glasses and sun glasses mid walking) and read the directions out aloud to myself. Word for word. I concentrate. I get lost. So today, by the time I had to stop in this beautiful town, I was already about 4 kms away from the town. Shall I turn around (that means an extra 8 kms because I would have to do the same thing again tomorrow). I see there is a monastery up ahead (everything seems to be 3.7 km away). I will go and stay at the monastery. I walk. Uphill mostly. I am warm, and just after thinking how few flies there are, the *******s are all back, trying to climb into my mouth. In fact, the little ***** are trying to get between my top lip and my gums, that is where they will feel at home. They stick to my skin like little geckos, feet suckering on for dear life, you literally have to pull them off your face.

The other irritating (of many) thing about Brierly is that he talks about “we”. Years ago someone wrote that the pronoun “we” is reserved for royalty, newspaper editors and people with tapeworm. I assume he is afflicted by the latter and that it affected his sense of direction. I walk up to the convent on the hill (walk is really not the right word – I schlep/trek/hoist myself up the hill – why oh why did they always have to build these bloody things on hills?) to the convent. It looks like a modern day assylum, burglar bars a bit like our home in Sea Point. (Have you ever seen a house with burglar bars on the inside and the outside of the windows? Our house.) In fact, the place looks so scary that I made an executive u-turn and fumble down the hill. At any point I expect some Nazi nun to come running after me. Me, I ain’t staying in this place. Now I have a few options. The 16km day could turn into a 35 km day if I carry on. Convinced that I will find a hotel between here and point 35km, I trek on. (Thinking that when Brierly says “no services” he has just not done his homework. Typical). I walk, and I walk, and I walk. I sweat. The flies try their best to get between my top lip and my gums to lay their eggs, sneaky *******s. There is no sign of no hotel. In fact, after the cleaning frenzy of this morning, everything is tightly closed up again. In Pimheiro da Bemposta (I ask you…) I find a Pastelleira. Cafe with pastries. A very drunk man comes to sit with me at my table, refusing to believe that I do not speak Portuguese. He has a monologue that would put Hamlet to shame – in Portuguese, lubricated by lots of spit and more than usual slurring. I wait for his dentures to land on my plate any minute. He does not give up. Eventually another man walks over, asking if I am German. I decide to avert the insult and smile politely saying no – Afrique du Sod. In a broken english he tells me that he is from New York. And I am the Pope (on Fridays). Since he speaks english, I ask him if he knows of a hotel nearby. He doesn’t. (See he is from New York). A bit later he comes back, offering me accommodation. I politely decline, lying that I have just found something on the internet. The idea of staying with him and his wife, having to listen to his stories all night puts a jump in my step for the next 10km. Yes – that is how far I am from the next albergue or hotel. And it is now 16h00. And I am beyond tired. I get up and walk. With meaning. My legs have a mind of their own, my back is being stabbed with red hot pokers. I walk. And yes. I make it to Oliveira da Azemeis. (Olivier die Muis). And decide that since I have done two days worth of walking in one day, I am go
ing to book into the hotel. I need thick walls, a bath. No pilgrims waking up at 06h00, and decent coffee. In fact, I deserve it. As I walk into the village, a man with a golden labrador walks up to me and asks me if I am German. (Roland – apologies, but WTF?). Is this a Portuguese pick-up line? After a few moments of small talk he points to the hotel (which I had passed in my haste to find it) and confirms that they have a pilgrim special. I check in – 45 euro, bed and breakfast. I am in heaven. A bath that I can stretch out in, two pillows, concrete floors and solid walls.

After a long bath ( and washing my socks – see I only have three now) I venture into town. In the main drag I see a physio, and storm through the door to the astonishment of everyone in the establishment. They are fully booked, but must have seen the expression on my face. I can come in at 20h15. A very short man and his pretty female assistant take me in hand. Yes, both of them. While he tries to break my neck, crack my ribs and dislocate my shoulders, she massages my legs. I am not sure where the “physio” is in all of this, but hey, I am like a lamb to the slaughter. At this point, you can take to my skull with a jackhammer and would lie still. 35 km is not for sissies. Not if you thought in you mind that you are going to do 16. Then again, I am tough. I can do it. “Voorwaarts christen stryder….”

After the physio, I bump into the man with is Labrador again. I make a quick duck to the hotel to escape. I put on something warm and decide to go and find food. I go out the back way – only to bump into him again, offering to take me (thank God he meant show me) to a nice restaurant. I so do not want to spend time with people! And here I am at a jazz bar where I just had something like a “Uijtsmijter”: bread, cheese, bacon, ham, polony, more ham and vienna sausage all between several slices of bread, with a fried egg on top, swimming in a rather tasty tomato soup. With chips on the side. Crispy chips. And several glasses of wine as one does. It is Friday night after all and I walked 35 kms today. WTF.

]]>

<![CDATA[

Curia, Portugal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

]]>