I think the list of alcohol consumed last night serves to show that no one got up excessively early this morning. Today’s stage promises to be not only long, but hard as well. Harder for some than for others depending on the chosen route. The Camino offers three alternative routes after Villafranca del Bierzo. The traditional one, which is flat and relatively easy until the 10 kilometre uphill hike to Galicia, and then two different paths, one of which is known as the “Camino duro” (hard way), which has been gaining popularity the last few years but which doesn’t really have much to do with the historical route, if anything at all. Feeling energetic, Günther chose the hard way and didn’t take long to leave Cacabelos. I think it’s really funny how the Austrian pronounces the word ‘duro’. He says it in two goes, changing the ‘r’ into a ‘g’ and lengthening the ‘o’ at the end: “du-goooo”. I went down for breakfast in my own time and ran into Ruta and Szilvia who were finishing theirs off.
A short while later Zach appeared and I immediately looked for his knowing nod to confirm that the miracle had taken place. He pursed his lips to make it clear that not even the enema had been enough to solve the problem. A little later, as we were on our own, he confirmed the bad news and told me that he was going to stay in Cacabelos a little while longer as, even though his Spanish is limited, he thinks he understands what the name of the place means and he’s convinced that he can’t leave a place with such an inspiring name without fulfilling his duty. There’s no denying that the American takes things on the chin in good humour. I left him in the fruit shop buying plums and a couple of kiwis but before I said goodbye, I told him I’d have my mobile on, even at night, and that he shouldn’t hesitate to phone me if the situation gets worse or if he experiences any of the symptoms my sister said that he should look out for in particular (vomiting or abdominal pain or rigidity) and, if this is the case, to haul his ass, literally,
to the hospital as fast as he could.
Before leaving Cacabelos, I ran into Michael, the young guy from Boston, and together we walked the eight kilometre path through vineyards to Villafranca del Bierzo. Michael was telling me that he was accepted into one of the best universities in America a couple of years ago but that he’s decided to leave it and Washington altogether, which is where the university is. He’s sick of the insanely competitive environment around him and the fact that, no matter how good his faculty is, you can’t disagree. They rob you of individual thought while you’re meant to just like or lump whatever the teacher tells you. He wants something else for his life. Despite being young, Michael seems to know what he wants and I couldn’t do anything but encourage him, from first-hand experience, to do what he feels is right for him and not what others tell him to.
In Villafranca del Bierzo, we met Ruta and Szilvia by the church of Santiago. Afterwards we went down into the historical old part of the town to have our first bite to eat of the day. In the café where we stopped, there was a forty-something year old man being helped to walk by a child of about ten. I think other people I’ve met on the Camino have spoken to me about this pair. If they are the same ones, and I think they are by the scars on the father’s scalp, he’s an Australian who’s suffering from an incurable brain tumour, according to doctors, and the boy is his son. I don’t know if they’re travelling with the faith that the Apostle will cure him or simply because he doesn’t want to leave the world without having taken this trip with his firstborn. It’s really difficult to appear indifferent to some of the things you see here. You simply have to put all your own problems into perspective, especially those that have a solution, when people like the Australian guy are walking alongside you. Not to mention the huge role the boy’s taking on, walking this path on what would surely be, and I hope I’m wrong, his father’s last days on this earth.
After our quick snack, I said goodbye to Michael as he also wanted to give the “Camino duro” a go, and I had a quick walk around the streets of this beautiful town in El Bierzo where I’m already starting to hear some Galician voices. I set off again shortly after. I’m walking in a very good mood today. If things don’t go pear-shaped and my feet hold up, I’ll finally arrive in Galicia today. It feels like only yesterday when I started from that apartment building at Canfranc station that I helped to build twelve years ago, and already a month has passed. A month in which so many things have happened. A month that seemed like forever when I began my pilgrimage and now I get the feeling that it’s not going to be long enough and I’m not going to want this all to end when I get to Santiago…
For more or less the next fifteen kilometres I walked some stretches alone and some with Ruta or with Szilvia, having lively conversation. In La Portela de Valcarce, Ruta wanted to stop off to ask if there was any room in the pilgrim hostel. The pain in the arch of her foot is killing her and she’s decided to finish today’s stage here. Unfortunately, she was told there was no room and that she’d have to try her luck in the next town which is more or less one kilometre away. Ruta said that she could do one more kilometre but then she’s definitely staying in that town to rest. Szilvia stayed with her and I decided to go on as I’d received a message from Günther, who is as nice as ninepence, telling me that he wanted to enter Galicia with his first ‘Camino friend’ and that he’d wait for me in Vega de Valcarce, three kilometres away from where we were right now. As I arrived in Ambasmestas, a beautiful little town that lies in a valley where the rivers Valcarce and Balboa converge, I sent Ruta a message to tell her to make the effort and spend the night in this peaceful backwater.
Günther was waiting for me in Vega and greeted me with one of his usual big hugs that leave your vertebrae quivering. I arrived, just about, with a slight twinge in my calf and so I asked him if he’d let me rest before the hike we had in front of us to which the Austrian showed no objection, despite the fact we were running the risk of the evening closing in on us. Shortly after arriving in Vega the Hungarian girl Szilvia appeared and also expressed her desire to hike to O'Cebreiro with us. The climb was spectacular. Hard but more due to the amount of kilometres we’d already covered today than due to the route itself. But the reward was worth it. The views were spectacular and I hadn’t felt that serenity that we felt along the way for a long time. We definitely picked the right time to go up as there was no one else on the road and the sun was already down hiding between the mountains that surrounded us. The emotional element of the climb, knowing that we were about to cross into the land where the Apostle’s remains lie, was very much present and it was a very special moment, one of those that I’ll treasure.
The climb was not only special, but fun. Günther and yours truly have a great understanding and we spent the whole journey cracking jokes. I had already experienced the fact that when we are on higher ground, he feels the need to make it known that he’s Austrian and the mountains are his natural environment. On the way up to O'Cebreiro he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to reassert himself as the Abominable Snowman. At one point he stopped to very intently scan the horizon and then told us to hurry as those clouds we could see to our left were coming straight for us, and it wasn’t looking good. I stood there looking at him with a face that said “you’re making this up, right?” and he looked back at me and a few seconds later said, very seriously: “I smell the humidity; it’s going to rain”. I nodded unconvinced but knowing for sure that there was no way in hell this was the weather forecast. I don’t know a bloody thing about meteorology but there was no wind and no water appeared to be falling from those clouds in the region there were over now. And anyway, we weren’t that far from the summit so with any luck we would arrive without getting wet.
As we were only a couple of kilometres away from O'Cebreiro, we reached the boundary stone that marks the fact that we’re now in Galicia, and we hugged each other full of jubilation. We also made the most of the photo opportunity to illustrate the moment. A little before reaching this boundary stone and passing into the first Galician town, it seemed as though a few clouds, darker than the ones before, were closing in on us but Günther told us not to worry and that it wasn’t very likely that they would open up on us. Without thinking twice, I put my rucksack on the ground, got out my rain jacket and put it on, which the two of them found very funny. Well, it was funnier for Szilvia than it was for Günther, who am I kidding. At not even three hundred metres from the town, the Austrian stopped for a moment and asked us if we heard something. We said we didn’t but he asked us if we were sure. “Yes, don’t you hear it? It’s a bottle of wine calling us!” - which was followed by one of his usual outbursts of laughter. The truth is Günther’s sense of humour is much appreciated as, of course, is his generosity, which he showcases as much as he can.
It was almost nine at night when we set foot in the streets of the town. A group of pilgrims who were out for a walk after dinner were surprised to see us arrive so late and gave us a round of applause. The pilgrim hostels were full so we had to look for accommodation in one of the renovated stone houses which are used as lodgings for pilgrims. In one of them, I asked if they had any beds and a very serious man told me yes they did, but that they were taken. I quickly found out what Galician wit is and to tell you the truth, I didn’t find it all that amusing. I’m sure walking for nearly twelve hours only for someone to say such a stupid wisecrack didn’t help. In the end a nice woman told us she had room in her house and so we got settled in. We had the customary hot shower and as we went out to go for dinner, we were surprised to see those clouds, which our Austrian weatherman had said were only passing by, bucketing down over our heads. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to ask Günther what had happened to his forecast and he told me, while giving me a pat on the back, as if I had twigged, not to get all smug as it’s only a passing cloud and tomorrow the sun will be out again…
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