Many years ago, when men and women were depicting their world in elaborate drawings on cave walls, there was a cloud formation which collected moisture from the great waters which we now call the Bay of Biscay. These clouds, when full, would return the waters to the Cantabrian mountainsides, creating a green paradise of forests, ferns and flowers. More recently, as men and women began walking across a path to the south of the mountains, some of these clouds took the waters and cool winds associated with the rain and poured it out upon these pilgrims.

The clouds at first did not know where these pilgrims were going, but wanted only to cool them in the hot summers and provide water for the streams from which they drank and bathed. Yet after more time, the clouds became curious as to where these people were traveling and decided to follow them. Thus, they learned that these intrepid souls were traveling to a place called Santiago de Compostela. The clouds so fell in love with Santiago that they did not leave and remain there to this day, delivering rain as is their custom.

And today, the villages around Santiago de Compostela hold festivals during which they chant incantations and send up booming fireworks in an attempt to break apart these clouds which bring this never-ending rain. The clouds are amused by this, thinking these people are celebrating their presence.

In yesterday’s post, I talked about the distractions we create for ourselves. Any of you who know me well will know one of my favorite distractions is the pipe organ. Last night I took the bus into Santiago to listen to David Briggs play the organ at the Cathedral. After blowing out the cobwebs with an arrangement of William Walton’s Spitfire, he played a delicate version of Claire de Lune which was my favorite piece of the evening. It was a great evening, although a few pieces wandered a bit too long before resolution. I closed my eyes and, accompanied by the brash arrangements only a pipe organ can produce, recalled memories of my Norte/Primitivo passage. Other impressions came to mind: the fall from grace of Adam and Eve, the immensity of time and space, the perilous life of a butterfly.

I took a pre-arranged taxi back to Pension Ribadiso, had a good sleep and put in an honest 15 miles today, stopping at the Casa Rural Piñeiro which now takes the top spot (sorry Sean and Mynhardt!) for best meal along the Camino. Set off a few kilometers from the Camino (thank goodness to get away from the last-100-km-crowd), this country lodge was a true surprise with a great kitchen focused on attention to local foods and wines. A fitting, if unexpected, grand finale to this Camino.

Today has been a great day, one of those days you get up and the world is a beautiful place and just gets better. The Camino has its ups and downs, both literally and mentally. So I take the good vibrations of today with a measure of caution. The elation experienced last year upon entering Santiago will not be repeated, nor is it expected. I look forward to a quiet day, one of preparation for the journey home. And I hope that the local villagers have worked their magic on the clouds.

I took a bus from Lugo this morning. A full rainbow arched across the western sky. The bus followed close to the Camino Francés and as we stopped in Melide, the confluence of several different Caminos, I noticed an increase in the number of peregrinos, amplified also because many pilgrims decide to do only the last 100 km. I got off the bus in Ribadiso and ducked into a Repsol service station to get out of a steady drizzle of rain. By the time I put on my raincoat, the weather had cleared up. I walked against the grain a kilometer back to the Pensión Ribadiso and lost count after seeing sixty pilgrims walking towards Santiago. I was way too early to check in so I went across the street to the Meson Ribadiso.

I sat down and watched the people go by. There is a very different vibe on the trail during these last 100 km. After walking relatively secluded trails and sharing the common bond of a great distance travelled, it is a bit of a shock to meet these new pilgrims. Some, of course, had come a long way and were finishing the Francés or the Norte or the Primitivo, but most had only just begun. From the scowls on many faces, they were unhappy with the strain or the weather or perhaps only worried about their next lodging.

I felt a twinge of sadness because this mad rush signals the end of an adventure. I remember a similar emotion last year at the end of the Francés. No more days of walking alone through forests and over mountains with nothing but my thoughts, or the occasional horse or cow or ancient hermitage – or a pilgrim – to punctuate the day.

And what thoughts run through a pilgrim’s mind? I know that in the mornings, when the mind and body are fresh and the trail is new and inviting, the thoughts come tumbling out too fast to ponder any one of them for too long. Like waves on the beach, each successive one washes away the previous one and is itself washed away before it can make an impression. As the day goes on, the focus on the trail becomes hypnotic and the mind relaxes into a state of meditation. Now the thoughts can be better captured and corralled. It becomes easier to cull the frivolous and contemplate the more profound. Still, they slip away like water through your hand, so you must be quick to discern. Most disappear and are forgotten, like dreams. Later in the day, the mind and body are operating in a robot mode – in a trance – and placing one foot in front of the other is the only thing that matters. The horses which run wild in the morning until briefly tamed, are, in the afternoon, distant, blurred and camouflaged amongst the trees.

Before starting the Francés last year, I imagined myself thinking about my boyhood as I spent hours on the trail. What had happened to that kid, I wondered. What stories I could tell him about the adventures that stretched out before him. Would he recognize me, or I him? As it turns out, I did think about him, but I could not pin him down long enough to have a meaningful conversation. Maybe I tried too hard; this year, a few weeks ago, we met. You met him too. He is the boy down on the beach.

This year, I had loftier intentions. I wanted to contemplate eternal life. There was something that Father White, who gave me my Camino blessing this year, said in a homily that shook me. I do not remember the words, only the effect, and it probably had nothing to do with life or eternity or contemplation. One night, somewhere along the Way, eternal life nuzzled up to me, I think as surprised of me as I was awed by It. That is all I can say for now.

While I was talking with Mad (short for Madeline, just so you know), a woman from New Zealand came rushing into the mesón. She reminded me of the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. Totally preoccupied, she asked a few questions, I think as an excuse for interrupting a conversation, and then, just as suddenly, she was off again, presumably late for an important date. Upon reflection, I saw some of me in that woman. Too often, I focused on the destination when I should have stopped, removed my backpack (and shoes!) and listened to the sounds around me, gazed upon the awesome sights I was amidst. How much wiser I would be! That seems to be the way of life, especially the life I return to – happily mind you – a life built around distractions, diversions, disturbances – anything to keep our mind agitated and unfocused and oblivious to the one thing that really matters. We are all rushing along to that ultimate important date. If there is anything I learned on this journey, it is that life and eternal life are the same and must be embraced and cherished, like a lover or a friend or a fortuitous stranger.

Lugo has been a good place to take a break. The hostel is nice and clean and perfectly located, and Pedro at the front desk goes the extra step to help me locate the bus and train stations, as well as Alquimia, home of the best gin and tonic in town.

Lugo happens to be celebrating a music festival this week and last night featured an evening with soprano Roberta Invernizzi accompanied by Ars Atlantico, a group dedicated to the interpretation of music from the baroque through the classical eras. The group included José Manuel Dapena, playing a guitar crafted by José Luis Romanillos, master luthier, avid promoter of Spanish guitar music and author of several books about Antonio de Torres, the father of the modern classical guitar. Roberta was the star, of course, and she had a beautiful and captivating voice.

Lugo was originally a Celtic village but after Roman armies invaded the Spanish peninsula to dislodge the Carthaginians, they established a stronghold in Lugo to control the gold mines on the south of the Cantabrian mountains. The Roman defensive wall which still surrounds the city was built in the 3rd century and is a UNESCO World Heritage site. You can walk around the top of the wall which is over 2 km in length. I walked around twice and saw other strollers, dog walkers and joggers. Gonna kill my daily average unless I do another 20 laps, but the thunderstorms are going through. Maybe time to head over to Alquimia.

By the way, regarding the fellows in the last picture of yesterday’s blog: they are fellow peregrinos from Huelva. Just north of Huelva, to be precise, the region that produces the best jamon jabugo in Spain. A special breed of dark-haired black-footed Iberian pig is raised in this micro-climate and fed on acorns for the one-month fattening period to give the distinctive taste and melt-in-your mouth texture. After their sacrifice in winter, the shoulder and hind legs are cured in salt for a month or so and then dried for up to three years in special drying warehouses. Victor, the younger man in the picture (no, not me), recommended that I purchase the caña de lomo, the dried pork loin of the Iberian cerdo jabugo. His father, the old guy (no, not me), suggested if you want to ensure the best quality and not be fooled by unscrupulous vendors, purchase at Corte Ingles.

I have not seen many of the peregrinos I started out with. Maybe this break will give them a chance to catch up. I did see Takaya, but he was on the other side of the plaza when a thunderstorm rolled through. Back on the trail tomorrow!

Lugo has been a good place to take a break. The hostel is nice and clean and perfectly located, and Pedro at the front desk goes the extra step to help me locate the bus and train stations, as well as Alquimia, home of the best gin and tonic in town.

Lugo happens to be celebrating a music festival this week and last night featured an evening with soprano Roberta Invernizzi accompanied by Ars Atlantico, a group dedicated to the interpretation of music from the baroque through the classical eras. The group included José Manuel Dapena, playing a guitar crafted by José Luis Romanillos, master luthier, avid promoter of Spanish guitar music and author of several books about Antonio de Torres, the father of the modern classical guitar. Roberta was the star, of course, and she had a beautiful and captivating voice.

Lugo was originally a Celtic village but after Roman armies invaded the Spanish peninsula to dislodge the Carthaginians, they established a stronghold in Lugo to control the gold mines on the south of the Cantabrian mountains. The Roman defensive wall which still surrounds the city was built in the 3rd century and is a UNESCO World Heritage site. You can walk around the top of the wall which is over 2 km in length. I walked around twice and saw other strollers, dog walkers and joggers. Gonna kill my daily average unless I do another 20 laps, but the thunderstorms are going through. Maybe time to head over to Alquimia.

By the way, regarding the fellows in the last picture of yesterday’s blog: they are fellow peregrinos from Huelva. Just north of Huelva, to be precise, the region that produces the best jamon jabugo in Spain. A special breed of dark-haired black-footed Iberian pig is raised in this micro-climate and fed on acorns for the one-month fattening period to give the distinctive taste and melt-in-your mouth texture. After their sacrifice in winter, the shoulder and hind legs are cured in salt for a month or so and then dried for up to three years in special drying warehouses. Victor, the younger man in the picture (no, not me), recommended that I purchase the caña de lomo, the dried pork loin of the Iberian cerdo jabugo. His father, the old guy (no, not me), suggested if you want to ensure the best quality and not be fooled by unscrupulous vendors, purchase at Corte Ingles.

I have not seen many of the peregrinos I started out with. Maybe this break will give them a chance to catch up. I did see Takaya, but he was on the other side of the plaza when a thunderstorm rolled through. Back on the trail tomorrow!

I woke just after six in the morning to the sound of rain beating against the window shutter on the bedroom window. Here is the rain that was forecast, I thought, and rolled over and tried to get some more sleep. Didn’t work. I got up and opened the shutter and watched the rain fall thickly on the grass outside. I started considering options. Walk in the rain, wait til later in the day when it was supposed to taper off, take a bus, and so on. By the time I had risen, had a shower (in the itsy bitsy shower stall), dressed and packed my mochila the rain had diminished to a steady drizzle. Before I knew it, I pulled on my handy dandy Hefty trash can liner and was out on the street following the Camino and wistfully watched as a bus to Lugo went by.

The drizzle soon let up even more and I was able to walk without handy Hefty all the way to Lugo. By now, the steep climbs and descents were behind me, the trails were mostly good, and there were no stops along the way for a coffee or orange juice. The drizzly day did remind me of a time when I was in college hitch-hiking back from a spring break in New Orleans to catch a Grateful Dead/Fleetwood Mac concert during Mardis Gras and I found myself after two days of heading north in a pouring rain in Chattanooga, Tennessee and experienced a sense of total defeat. Not despair or demoralization, but complete and utter defeat. I called my Uncle Tom in Chicago, who knew the right people all over the States. Soon a friend of his found me and gave me a bus ticket to South Bend, bringing to a close one of the craziest episodes in my life. I will save that story for later!

Figuring this was going to be my last day of walking, I was watching the kilometer markings. I wanted to get within at least 100 kilometers of Santiago. Just before entering the walled old town of Lugo, I accomplished this feat.

I arrived at my pension in Lugo in record time. Of course, the room was not ready so I went down to the train station to see if I could get a later train. Not that I don’t like Madrid, but I was here to walk the Camino. As it turned out, there was a seat available on June 12 so I grabbed it. Now it was just a matter of changing all the hotel reservations I had made.

Today was a beautiful day for hiking as the sun came up shining in a blue sky. The valleys were full of fog, but most of today was above it all. The trails were good and well indicated with a minimum of asphalt. The ascents and descents were all manageable and I took it easy during the last 5 miles or so, detouring to Vilabade to catch the 15th century Iglesia de Santa Maria, considered a historic treasure. I stopped for a breather and a snack on the spacious grounds surrounding the church. There were also some other interesting historical sites along the way.

The afternoon thundershowers did not strike until about 5 pm today, a couple hours later than in the past few days so I had a bit of sunshine to dry my little pile of laundry and enough left over to sit in the hot sun and relax from the day’s efforts. It was about 21 miles and, according to my health app, I climbed the equivalent of 163 floors. That would be like walking up all the floors of the Empire State Building, taking the elevator down and walking up to the 61st floor.

Rain is forecast pretty much all day tomorrow so I am not sure I am going to do.

Sean and Mynhardt treated us to a nourishing and filling breakfast of granola and yoghurt followed by coffee and croissants with homemade jam and marmalade. They served orange juice as well but it was not freshly squeezed as it is in many of the cafe bars along the way. The goodbyes were long and the good wishes heartfelt.

The walk started with a steep climb through a thick morning fog. Breaking through the fog revealed more wind turbines. This was a shorter day than average, but the ascents were very steep, especially the final killer climb into Fonsagrada.

Half-way or so through the days trek I crossed over from Asturias into Galicia. I also passed by a marker indicating 160 km to Santiago. That would mean less than 100 miles to go to complete the Primitivo.

I was happy to arrive early to take care of some planning for the final days of the pilgrimage when reality derailed my plans. I had planned to arrive in Santiago on June 11, take a train to Madrid on June 12 and head back to Houston on June 13. However, the only train I could get booked on leaves Santiago June 10. A bus would take 10 hours and I will not do that. Flights on RyanAir started at 250 euros. I did not want the hassle of renting a car. The earlier departure meant changing hotel bookings which were already getting difficult. Funny how best laid plans can run amok!

Twenty plus miles tomorrow, with nearly 2900’ of total ascent, so I will keep this short. Goodnight from Galicia!

Alberge Miguelin is in the village of La Mesa which sits at the base of a hill atop which the giant air foils of a dozen or so wind turbines slowly rotate. I could hear the soft and distant whirrin whirrin whirrin of the blades as I fell asleep. I thought about my home in California where, when the wind is right and the waves are strong, I can hear the muted crashes of swells meeting land through the open window of our bedroom.

Not every morning, but most, I give thanks for being alive. As I set off on my daily journey, I call to mind all that I am thankful for. I am thankful for Paula, who understands this quixotic need of mine to travel to a distant place and walk for hours. I am thankful that I have three wonderful sons, born of the love between me and Paula, and pray that each of them can find a joy such as I have found in them. I am thankful that I grew up with a loving mother and proud father and six great sisters each of whom amaze me in the lives that have been bestowed upon them. I have a wonderful daughter-in-law and three beautiful grandchildren. I have been blessed with great friends, teachers and masters. I am blessed beyond what any man could expect. And I am truly thankful for all of that. And it all begins with being alive.

This morning started with a climb up and past the wind turbines followed by a long slow descent into the foggy forest and on to the Salime Reservoir and dam, generating 128 MW of electrical power. After crossing the dam and climbing a little ways I came to the Hotel Grandas where I was originally planning to stay, but realizing that it was such a short section, I had changed my plans to stay near the village of Castro, another 10 miles further ahead.

I had a fresh orange juice at the Hotel Grandas overlooking the reservoir, then continued along a country road and forested trails to Grandas de Salime, a busy village. I walked by the church and went in, hearing guitar music. Before I knew it, I was handed a song sheet and suddenly realized it was Sunday and mass was about to begin in a few minutes. I stayed, feeling a bit conspicuous in my Camino gear. I was in the second row back and just as the Mass started a young man came in and stood in the front row. He had some kind of nervous affliction and kept moving forward and back, or sideways, or in a bowing movement while seated. I wanted to lay my hand on his shoulder and tell him “Tranquilo, amigo,” and imagined him cured. Of course, I reasoned, I could not touch him – there was no predicting how he, or other churchgoers, might react. At some unseen signal, he went to the altar and picked up the collection basket and proceeded to collect donations. During the peace-giving, he went up and down the aisles shaking everybody’s hand. Later, he collected the song sheets. After mass, as I was walking to Castro, I struggled with the futility of faith. If the priest could transform a piece of bread to the Body of Christ, then surely he and Christ could cure this young kid of the nervous disorder. After a while, I realized that possibly by giving this simple soul a purpose, such as collecting alms or song sheets, the padre was giving him a reason to rejoice in being alive.

Later, I met the priest, a young man who would have no problem attracting women if he had chosen another profession. Actually, I had met him the night before, at Alberge Miguelin where he had dropped by after celebrating mass. I was nearly to my destination for today, Casa Rural San Julian when I stopped at La Parilla restaurant for a beer. I normally don’t have my “arrival beer” until I have actually arrived, but I saw another pilgrim couple and decided to stop. Soon after, Padre Pedro came into the same restaurant. I asked him if he would sign my “pilgrim’s credential” that I have previously mentioned. He was happy to comply: “Yo soy El Camino, Jesus of Nazareth”.

I ordered a bowl of butter beans with jabalí while I was at the restaurant and as I ate, the thunder, at first distant, moved in closer as the skies darkened. I skipped a cortado, paid up, said goodbye to padre and the pilgrims, and made off for Casa San Julian. The rain was pelting me as I arrived, but no damage done. Soon I had showered, dressed into clean dry clothes, found the bar and here I sit, watching the rain from the inside!

We are all always looking for that “gem”: the place that is at once so inviting you are afraid this might be the one, but you do your best to hold back your expectations because of previous disappointments. There were no disappointments here: from start to finish, it was a grand pleasure. The rooms were comfortable and rustically decorated, the bar was well stocked and had comfortable seating, the meal was a perfect blend of flavors, colors and textures, and the hosts were overly generous and polite without being obtrusive.

Aye, a lot to be thankful for today.

Today, I believe, was the defining stage of the Primitivo. The Camino rose from 600m to 1130m rising above the tree line to reveal some magnificent views. I took the Hospitales route which is recommended in good weather and for most of the day I had great weather. It was a magnificent day and although a bit different from what I expected, it made this whole adventure a rewarding experience.

I took a lot of pictures but it was hard to capture the colors and depth and breathtaking panoramas. As I started out, there was one pilgrim ahead of me. He had a good pace and although I approached him a few times he was soon off into his own world. He did not want to chitchat which was fine with me. I bumped into a few people going the other way.

There were some forest fires last April that swept through the area I passed through today, as attested to by a lot of black trees. However, the vegetation is coming back and the locals expect the trees will too.

What goes up must come down and the trail eventually led down from 1120m to 850m. I began hearing thunder and noticed dark clouds ahead. Today the rain caught up with me and I pulled on my handy Hefty bag, and soon found a chapel with a convenient portico sheltering several pilgrims. After half an hour it cleared up and we were on our way. I going to stay in Berducedo. I thought I had a private room booked but the fellow who attended me said, no, this is an alberge. I didn’t mention that I have stayed at many alberges that also had private rooms. I asked if I could rent a towel. No, he reminded me, this is an alberge. I resigned myself to doing the communal thing, but was not happy with the guy’s surly attitude. The pins and needles sticking at odd places in his face did not help me feel welcome. Long story short, I found a room in the next village and grabbed my gear and hiked another hour and found a very pleasant place alley Alberge Miguelin where I am sitting with a glass of wine writing this post.

I must mention one other person I met. She is a French girl traveling solo (from Paris) who does not stay in alberges. She spends the night in a sleeping bag in the fields, in a tent if rain threatens. She would not let me take her picture. She wants to go to Senegal next. Draw your own conclusions.

I spoke of signs in a recent post. Well here is one I saw on the wall of the alberge I stayed at yesterday.

Me:  Hmmm!  A transport service.
Left foot: Yay!!!
Right foot: Woo hoo!!!
Me:  Whoa!  Doesn’t mean I’m going to use it. 
Left foot:  Why not?  We are tired of carrying your backpack.
Right foot:  Yeah, we wanna break. 
Me:  Look here now!  A pilgrim must carry his backpack. It’s part of the deal. 
Left foot: Oh really?  And where is that written down?
Me:  You wouldn’t understand. It’s like staying in the alberges with a bunch of other people. Like having shell hanging on your backpack. Like using poles, for goodness sake!
Right foot:  Well you don’t do any of that. You don’t even collect stamps!  Your just a phony-grino!
Me: I am not!  I want to to find strength in weariness and shoulder the load for all who cannot walk the Camino!
Left foot:  Oh for heaven’s sake!  Listen, you’ve got a 20 mile hike and your rucksack is full of a bunch of stuff you don’t even use!
Right foot: OK, OK, stop!  We are going to take a vote. I vote for TaxiCamino
Left foot: Me too!
Both knees: We vote for TaxiCamino, too!
Lower Back Pain: I’ll take a part of that vote. 
Crick in the neck: Hey, I’m in too!  That’s 6 to your 1!
Me: OK!  I hear you!  But if they lose my backpack I am going to be really angry!
Entire Body: breaks into Alleluiah chorus. 

No doubt, today was a long walk. Twenty miles without a backpack but a lot of up and down. It started out great, I was cruising – my sassy feet had wings! But the last 5 kilometers felt interminable. Thunder was rumbling at my back, the wind began to blow cold, and the raindrops started pelting down about a kilometer from Casa Herminia, my stop for the night. I departed at 8 am and arrived at 5 pm. Without any breaks because if you don’t stop when you see one of the few bars along the way, you don’t eat or drink! And my feet? Funny you should ask: