Startpoint: Villafranca de Bierzo; Endpoint: Hospital da Contesa; Distance walked: 37.5k; Steps taken: 45,579.

The place I’m staying, Hospital Da Contesa, is not actually a hospital. Although the way my feet feel, maybe I should be in one. At 6:00pm this evening, I went for a walk around the village to see what was to see. At 6:02pm, I was back in my guesthouse – I walked slowly because of my sore feet.

It wouldn’t be described as a one-horse town, because there is no horse. There’s a cow. It’s in a shed next door to the guesthouse. I can smell it and hear it from my bedroom. It moos to welcome pilgrims as they pass through and leaves presents all along the high street.

As I ate dinner, they were showing Kommisar Rex on the TV. Kommisar Rex is a German police show where a dog helps the homicide squad solves murders. It appears to be the only show that is improved by being dubbed. I think it’s because they were smart enough not to dub the dog, as he’s the best actor in the show. Two Germans were having dinner near me – they didn’t care for Kommisar Rex either, they were discussing the economics and practicalities of keeping a pet donkey. I doubt a pet donkey is much use in solving crimes.

The landlady seemed to understand me when I told her I was a vegetarian and rattled off a list of things I could eat. I clarified that I didn’t eat fish either and she nodded at this, rattled off a few more things and went away. Apparently what she had understood was that I wanted a giant plate of plane macaroni, with no sauce, but which smelled strongly of fish.

I was eating a Peregrino Menu on my own, I was given a full bottle of wine to myself. I’m afraid I was unable to finish it (having had a few pre-dinner beers), so donated it to some other pilgrims who’d only been given a single bottle to share. Unfortunately, I was not able to donate my plain fish-smelling macaroni to anyone, so it went unfinished.

Today was one of my favourite days of walking so far. Starting in Villafranca, we had a steep climb back up into the mountains. Initially it was damp, cold and misty, but later on in the day, it was only damp, cool and cloudy, so that was a nice improvement.

I spent the morning overtaking people as I climbed up the hill. I had started walking at 8am, so they must have been earlier. I stopped for a coffee at 10.30am and then overtook the same people again. I stopped for lunch at 1pm and then overtook the same people again. One guy got his own back on me by overtaking me, but then he went the wrong direction. I whistled and called and clapped to get his attention before indicating that he’d missed a turn, so then he overtook me again. If I hadn’t alerted him, he might still be lost now, so I feel like I was the real winner. The Camino isn’t a race, everyone moves at their own pace, but it’s a lot of fun when you pretend it is.

I crossed the border into Galicia today. After France, Navarra, Rioja and Castille y Leon, Galicia is the final country/province of the Camino. As we climbed the last hill, one gent (as I passed him out) said “well, at least this is the last hill. Once we reach the top of this, it’s all downhill”. When I got to the top, I could see nothing but mountains all around me – if we’re not going to climb a few of them, I don’t think we’re going to get out of here.

I felt at home walking in the countryside around the Galician border. There was gorse! And heather and brambles and ferns! I haven’t seen ferns since Ireland. the pine trees in the forest looked forlorn and damp. They were smothered in moss, strangled by lichen and bent by the wind and rain into weirdly misshapen poses. Yoga for trees. These were Galician plants. Plants that could survive the constant battering of Atlantic storms, not like the delicate vineyards and tall slender stalks of corn from the past weeks. The fields, where there were fields, were full of grass, with a few cows and sheep. One farmer drove a small herd of cattle down the lane the Camino followed and I was nearly trodden on. A loose horse cantered passed me another time, also coming close to hitting me. For the first time, I missed my walking stick.

Most of the walkers today were just aiming for the top of the hill, a place called O’Cebreiro, the first town within Galicia. When I reached it, I was having such a good time, and it looked like such a tourist trap with Camino-trinkets for sale, busloads of tourists buying walking sticks and Celtic music playing, that I moved on. I patted myself on the back for walking further than most, until I heard a walking stick click-clacking on the path behind me. Cursing my hubris, I turned and saw a man in a clean bright-red fleece behind me. He carried all his gear in a canvas draw-string bag and held a tall curved walking stick shaped like a bishop’s crozier. The stick shone like it was freshly polished. “Peregrino mui nuevos”, I muttered and stumbled on.

The first town I came to after O’Cebreiro had a large hotel, so I tried the door, but it didn’t open. I asked in the shop that shared the building about a room for the night, but an angry looking old woman vehemently denied the very existence of a hotel in the town. As I left, the same woman passed through a back way and looked at me leave from a window in the non-existent hotel.

I approached three large Alsatian dogs at the edge of the town. They barked angrily at a passing car shortly before I reached them and I braced myself for an angry attack – a lot of pilgrims tell stories of angry dogs. As I approached, the dogs lay down and wagged their tales, but a small hen ran out from under a gate and charged me! I was so startled I jumped. I hope the grumpy hotel-denier didn’t see me.

The next town I reached was two kilometres further on. It smells of cow-dung.

Buen Camino