Saturday, September 14th
Villafranca
about 1:00am
Loud music, Spanish, from the Plaza Major down below the albergue. Didn't long,
maybe ten minutes. Some kind of festival, maybe One in the morning is part
of the 'let's wake the Peregrinos' part of whatever ritual this is. Was
torn between closing the door to the balcony, and wanting a closer look at
what
was going on down there. Ended up not doing either.
6:51am
And let the muesli-fest begin! 'Absolut Muesli Crunch', and, as an added bonus,
has little piece of chocolate mixed in. The Breakfast of the Gods.
10:30am
And, according to Raju, Pradela is just 'a village'.
Stone
buildings, huge vegie gardens and fields ploughed by horses, donkeys
actually put to work, chooks. Helpful old Spanish guys
who show you where the agua fountain is, and which direction the Camino
takes from here. Farmer's wives walking purposefully by in green gumboots
and carrying hessian sacks, while another hangs washing on the line.
after tying up the donkey. No, this place is real. It's always been like this. Things have always been done the way they still do here. |
11:15am
On the outskirts of Trabadelo, having descended the mountain. Saw Swedishpilgrim
resting under a tree. If he's expecting to make El Cebreiro today, as he
was planning, then he'd better get movin' and a'haulin' that trolley.
Through the woods, a tree stump with moss, looking like a stone troll, and
through what was almost an earthern tunnel, the tree branches forming the
canopy. Perfect.
Trabadelo
A house decorated with tincans and fluro-paint. Looks like crap. Fluro-crap
that is.
Then walking out of town, there's meant to be three bars here, but I can't find
any of 'em. Today's been a totally caffeine free day, so far. Chris hasn't
had her cup of tea, so she's on the verge of crankiness too.
There's been quite a few pilgrims without backpacks on the Way today. Maybe they're just hoping The Way will provide.
12:21pm
Not sure what this place is called at all. Valcarce, maybe.
Anyway, it's a rather large bar/restaurant/hostal thing, with trucks out the
front.
And the back of the loo door in the Mens is the Peregrino's Libre D'Or, if "Fir
me el Peregrino" means anything.
Coffees, finally, and a Mars Bar, and on the TV is a starlet with a broken
finger, which isn't stopping her from quivering with the best, but she has
a violinist and a cellist in her band, and she has nice tits, so she's okay.
Amaral?
Walking with the 'viaduct' on one side, a freeway I think, but crossing the river, the Rio Valcarce dozens of times, usually over stone bridges. Vega itself can't be far.
2:41pm
Vega de Valcarce
And no, it wasn't. Passing through Ambasmestas, then Soygayoso, where Chris
bought a scallop shell from a young boy's stall. 2 euros.
First albergue,
a private one, and the woman there told us that the Municipal Refugio was
500 metres further on. Good move, it's in the town.
Arrived. No one here. Dumped the bags, then down to the restaurant. Lunch,
we're starving, salads, a beer and wine, with olive raciones.
Then back to the refugio, and the hospitalero eventually turns up, and she looks disturbingly like an ex-student of mine, but can't be. Anyway, paid, had the passports stamped, upstairs, we're the first in, so we get to choose. |
4:52pm
Small siesta, as it turned out, but then the Germans arrived, and yellyellyellyell.
Woke up not knowing where the hell I was, or what time it was, if I'd walked
or not, if it was time to leave, took a while to adjust. From unconsciousness
to being in the middle of a crowd of yelling Germans in milliseconds.
Could've been in Berlin for all I knew.
5:56pm
Bar el Refugio del Cazador
And judging by the photographs on it's walls, this is pig-huntin' territory.
Not only that, but the heads of the real things are displayed, triumphantly.
When pig-huntin' season's on, the shooters display their catch right here,
out the front of the Bar. In the photograph, the concrete is awash with pig
blood, and the carcasses of the dozen or so of the hunted piggies that didn't
get away are at the feet of the proud hunters. I'm wondering what they'd do
if a wild piggie killed one of the hunters, maybe in a surprise attack or something.
Wondering if they'd put his poor, unfortunate carcass with the hunters or the
hunted. I'm sure they could prop the dead guy up for the photo shoot.
later
A sit by the stream, the Rio, and watched the seven cows being herded down
the street on the other side. Then wanders across the bridge, around, then
back. Tres pleasant, but couldn't really be bothered climbing the 20 minutes
to the Saracen Castle. I'm not really in tourist mode.
6:39pm
Chris successfully misdirected a German bikie pilgrim, "Refugio ?" and
unintentionally pointed the wrong way, towards El Cebreiro. Then me, "No,
refugio's back
that way, to your left". She obviously believed Chris.
7:20pm
The bikie pilgrim is still looking for the refugio.
8:40pm
Another menu de Peregrino. Another evening ending with me being a little pissed
on red wine. It's as cheap as water, and I feel obliged to finish the bottle.
If it's cold, yep, I'll drink it. If not, then I'll drink it anyway.