Startpoint: Negreira; Endpoint: Olveiroa; Steps taken: 43,238; Distance walked: 33km.

It rained today. That pretty much sums it up.

When I left Negreira, I wondered about the large plastic spheres on top of lots of the farm-buildings. Some were quite large. I guessed up to two metres in diameter. I couldn’t figure it out.

I was wearing my full waterproofs and the cover over the bag. I still got wet. The rain was constant, heavy and horrible. I began to wonder had my post about the cathedral mass angered someone up above. But only Neptune would have that much water at his disposal and I doubt that soggy-bearded fork-fondler cares too much about Sunday mass. Then I realised, this was Galicia’s revenge. I challenged Galicia to throw everything it had at me, and now that’s what it was doing, while it had the home advantage. I realised what the plastic spheres were: giant ballcock and all of Galicia was going to fill up with rain like a giant cistern until those babies floated.

The rain came from all sides. It got under my hat. It got down my waterproof pants. It got through my goretex raincoat. I knew the rainjacket had been advertised as ‘breathable’, I didn’t realise it was also breathable for fish.

The paths turned to streams. I started by hopping from rock to rock and dry patch to dry patch, but the water was too deep and the paths too narrow. I tried walking up in the woods off the path, but couldn’t tell the direction. In the end, I gave up the tiptoeing and pussyfooting for futile and just walked through the water. At some points, the water rose to six or eight inches. Luckily I was wearing waterproof Goretex walking shoes with tough Vibram rubber soles. Unluckily the shoes didn’t go six inches up. They filled with water. I now know for sure they are waterproof, at least from the inside out. I squelched for 33km from 9.30am to 4.30pm.

A fellow pilgrim had told me that at one point on the trail to Finisterre, they had recently built a little bridge, where previously there were only stepping stones. I thought to myself that on a day like today, that hardly mattered. I was wrong. I found the bridge. It was made of carefully selected and cut half-logs, each round surface polished and varnished to look very modern and beautiful, and provide no grip whatsoever, especially in the wet. In case anyone managed to make it over them, at the end was a smooth plank to step on, carefully angled to look flat, while it actually sloped down. The bridge was an improvement over the stepping stones, not by reducing the chances of walkers slipping and falling into the stream, but by ensuring if they did fall, they would do so from a greater height, thus maximising the size of the splash. I didn’t fall in, but the last plank did catch me out, and I did the splits involuntarily as I stepped off the bridge. I didn’t know I could bend that way, to be honest.

At about 2pm, I stopped in a roadside bar to dry off a little and have a beer and a coffee. Before leaving, I took off my waterproof trousers. They hadn’t kept me warm or dry, they’d just slid down my arse enough to stop me walking, so I decided to make-do without. Then the hailstones started.

My bare legs were raw within minutes. The hailstones bounced off the rest of the wet gear, but apparently the hood of my rainjacket was not made for people with noses the size of mine. The tip of it was the recipient of numerous little ice-meteorites. Ow.

I’m in the bar in Olveiroa now. I’m wearing my pyjama top and pants with no underwear, as everything else is soaked. The water got through the rain-cover of my bag and soaked my clothes. My sleeping bag is saturated. It got through my rainjacket and waterproofs, and through ziplock bags to seep into my mapbook and my Pilgrims Credential, making the stamps I’ve spent 34 days collecting blur and run.

The rain and wind are still going. The building has had a half-dozen mini-blackouts since I got here. All my things are in the dryer, except my shoes, which are wedged under the hot radiator in my room. I’m still damp and the skin on my feet is still wrinkled and prune-like.

Galicia may have scored a couple of hits today, but I did my 33km and made it to my destination. Only one day of walking left before I get to Finisterre. I’ll be walking along the Atlantic coast for a lot of the day, before I stay in a lighthouse for the night. It’ll hardly be raining at the lighthouse, will it?

Buen Camino

Startpoint: Santiago de Compostela; Endpoint: Negreira; Steps taken: 26,346; Distance walked: 23km.

Today I began the Camino de Finisterre. In traditional pilgrim fashion, I began with a hangover, a long mass and a falafel kebab.

We went out to celebrate last night and had a few drinks with lots of other pilgrims. The girl with the blister wrapped it in a few pairs of socks and hobbled from bar to bar, attracting many sympathetic looks. This morning, the three of us came up with a much better solution. To allow her walk on the injured foot, we attached her sandal to the injured foot, by means of the large roll of sellotape they had at the hotel reception. It’s really quite a fetching look to go to mass in.

I decided to go to the traditional pilgrims’ mass in the cathedral before hitting the road. On my way, I stopped into the tourist office to get information on the Camino de Finisterre, however it was the wrong tourist office. I asked in the Santiago Tourist office, while I should have asked in the Galician Tourist office 100meters down the street, because clearly those should be two completely independent operations. Foolish of me to assume that a tourist in Santiago would require similar services to a tourist in Galicia, of which Santiago is a part.

We arrived twenty minutes early for the mass and the cathedral was already full, mostly of pilgrims who’d arrived in Santiago the day before and wanted to make sure they could sit down for the service. The elderly local massgoers were relegated to standing at the back, along with those of us pilgrims who arrived with less than half an hour to spare to claim seats.

A small army of security guards stopped people bringing in rucksacks, blocking the aisles or taking pictures. After hearing the Spanish announcement about no cameras or mobile phones, I took a few quick pictures before they repeated it in English, so I still had a viable defence, should I be questioned.

After an elderly nun gave some singing lessons to the congregation, a teenage boy read out a list of the pilgrimage routes and the countries of the pilgrims who had travelled them and arrived since the last mass. He also gave a greeting in Spanish, English, French, German, Italian and a number of languages I couldn’t recognise.

The priests came out in vestments of green and white and I was immediately reminded of the Irish soccer strip. Given the grey hair and dour looks, I fancied that I was looking at Eamonn Dunphy, Johnny Giles, Liam Brady and Bill O’Heirlihy making some offering to the UEFA gods.

Towards the end of the mass, the cathedral got busier and busier as people piled in at the end just to see the swinging of the giant censer. It was a spectacular sight, but nobody told me that sneaking in at the end was an option.

After my kebab, I hit the road at about 1.30pm and saw very few pilgrims on my way. I had been worried about signposting, considering I was now walking away from Santiago, but the yellow arrows still all point west. A few kilometres outside the city, we could look back from a hill and see the towers of the cathedral rising above the city; they looked more impressive from that distance.

On the road I met the man I previously considered a Swiss schoolteacher who had lost his class of schoolchildren. He was ahead of me and I was slowly catching up when he missed a turn and went off in the wrong direction. I began to understand how he had lost his schoolkids. I whistled to get his attention and pointed him in the right direction. He walked faster after that and eventually caught up with me and bought me a beer and half a slice of tortilla to thank me for setting him right. Turns out he’s not a schoolteacher at all, but the kids are from his hometown so he was walking with them. He’s 72, walks faster than me and has put in a couple of 50kilometer days. He fuels himself on beer and spanish omelette. After I had my beer and spanish omelette, he didn’t catch me again.

My hotel tonight has a real bath! With hot water and everything. My dad was very excited when I told him. It also has a gruff receptionist and some form of donkey/dog beast outside my window who barks/honks/brays loudly every 20 minutes.

Buen Camino

Startpoint: Salceda; Endpoint: Santiago de Compostela; Distance walked: 29.5k; Steps taken: 36,759.

Today we were joined by a dog. We first saw the dog in Portomarin, more than 100km ago. We don’t know if it started there, or how far it has come. It was young, very friendly and very very hungry. This morning when it ran up to us, we made the stupid mistake of feeding it, so it hung around for most of the rest of the day. We christened him Santiago, after a quick vote to decide between Santiago, Senor Sanchez and The Lone Ranger.

At one point, I thought I had lost Santiago, which was a great thing. The last thing I wanted was to be looking after a huge stray dog while walking through a big(ish) city. He had actually just taken a short cut and was waiting for me as I came up the hill. I think I’ll write a book about Santiago the Pilgrim Wonderdog.

We finally lost him about 5k from the Cathedral in Santiago. He followed a couple walking in the opposite direction. They looked like they had food. I hope he’ll be okay.

Walking into Santiago’s old town, I thought I got a sudden bout of fear and concern for the dog. I’d heard what sounded like somebody strangling a cat. It turned out a busker was just playing bagpipes at the gates of the main square. The sound was so painful, they must have done it to dissuade non-pilgrims from crowding the square. It worked.

It felt like a long difficult walk today. Maybe being so close to the end, we were all expecting it to be over quicker. It wasn’t. It dragged. And dragged. And dragged. Trying to avoid a large hungry stray dog didn’t help

We finally entered the cathedral and saw the giant swinging incense thing. It was originally used to mask the smell of dirty, sweaty disease-ridden pilgrims. It really didn’t look big enough. As we admired the interior, we were approached by a member of the cathedral staff and told to get out. After walking 800km with a 12kg bag on our back, we weren’t allowed enter the cathedral with those same bags. They didn’t fit in. To look at the cathedral, we’d first need to deposit our rucksacks several streets away, so as not to disturb the ambiance of the place. Made us really feel welcome. We haven’t been back yet.

We’ve since checked into a hotel and had dinner and a few drinks. We also wrapped the remains of the Jellyfish-Blister in three pairs of socks, four plasters, two bandages and a knee-brace. The evening has been spent meeting and greeting old faces, drinking €1 beers and reminiscing about experiences from earlier in the walk. The three of us who walked together part ways here: one to Portugal, one home to Ireland and one on to Finisterre, the ‘end of the earth’ on the Atlantic Coast. It’s a bittersweet evening – no more blisters, bed bugs, snoring, sweaty sleeping bags, or stray dogs; but no more camaraderie, €2 bottles of wine, or laughing at the newbies.

This is the end of the Camino de Santiago. But I’m not going to finish here, I’m going to Finisterre.

Buen Camino

Startpoint: Casonoba; Endpoint: Salceda; Steps taken: 43,045; Distance walked: 34km.

Today I took my millionth step. My pedometer says 1,008,569 so far. Tomorrow I should arrive in Santiago de Campostela, after 788 kilometres.

I assumed I would reach the cathedral on my own, but as I write this there are three of us planning if and how we enter the cathedral together. We haven’t decided yet. More wine might help, at least, that’s what we’re trying.

I met these two other pilgrims on the walk. We walk at different paces, so we’ve said our good-byes about ten times. But we keep meeting every evening. We haven’t managed to split up yet. Some have tried harder than others.

We reluctantly left Jellyfish-Blister girl after breakfast this morning. She doubted her own ability to walk thirty-four kilometres. So did we.

After twenty kilometres we felt a bit peckish and stopped into a pizzeria in Arzua. They were playing diddly-ey Irish music and lots of gruff looking gents with long white beards were drinking beer. I had an odd sensation I was at a Ronny Drew lookalike competition. We shazamed* the music. It was a local folk group. Galicia really is very like Ireland, except very so slightly warmer and very so slightly less punctual. The music was: O Mouro, Luar Na Lubre, Oson Do Ar – one of those is the song, one the band and one the album; we’re not sure which is which.

As we were resting, listening to Irish-ish music and eating cheese pizza and fruit salad, the less extravagant pilgrims passed us out. There was one Swiss teacher whose pupils had taken a bus to Santiago, leaving him 70km behind. He was well into his 50s and was planning on walking 50km today. I’m 34 and I walked 34km today, so I think that’s fair enough.

We couldn’t find the municipal Albergue in Salceda where we had planned to stay. The private place we found could only offer us shared hotel-rooms. We reluctantly decided to stay to ensure other pilgrims could take any remaining bed in the municipal place. The impending rain, adjoining bar, and cute Alsatian puppy had only a marginal influence on our decision. Later on, when the rain got heavy, we saw the landlord turning away the slower pilgrims. We watched on sadly from the heated bar as the heads on our beers settled and our food arrived. The food was a little cold, which eased our guilt.

After dinner we ordered extra wine and played one of those folded paper question games. The questions were as follows (answers below):

1) How many fans do Dec’s bike shorts have?

2) How many bilsters does Jill have?

3) How many steps will Dermot have taken by tomorrow?

4) How many phonecalls does Dermot make a day?

5) How many times a day does Declan complain about sweat?

6) Match these dishes with Dec’s description:
a) Flan, b) Wine, c) Bread;
x) Like an Old Church, y) Eggy, z) like an old shoe

7) How many eggs does Dermot eat a day?

8) Who drank the most wine of the Camino?

The owner here used to work on the boats in Castletownbeare. He was able to talk to us in fluent English and to one of our fellow pilgrims in fellow Polish. Considering many of the Albergue are unable to grunt coherently, this a pleasant way to wind down before the end.

Buen Camino

Answers
1) 3
2) 7
3) Any answer over 1 million would do
4) 3
5) 53
6)
a) Flan = y) Eggy
b) Wine = x) like an old church
c) Bread = z) like an old shoe
7) 4
8) The drunk Korean (previously unmentioned)

Startpoint: Portomarin; Endpoint: Casanova; Steps taken: 40,094; Distance walked: 31km.

We started today examining the condition of one of our fellow pilgrim’s feet. She is Australian and I have often watched Border Patrol, so I naturally assumed at first that she was smuggling a large jellyfish in her sock, and it had actually begun to eat her foot. It turns out that she actually is the owner of the largest blister in Spain.

There were a lot of new pilgrims on the walk again today. They were taking pictures of the fog and of the trees. Riveting. Things are also getting more expensive. €1.50 for a coffee! Ridiculous.

When I stopped for my mid-morning coffee I took the opportunity to try and dry my shirt under the hand drier in the bathroom. Unfortunately the lock on the cubicle was broken (like 85% of cafe bathrooms in the world), so while shitting on the toilet topless, one fellow pilgrim walked in on me. After he and I apologised profusely, I proceeded to re-apply some anti-chafe gel, when I was interrupted again. Topless and applying gel to chaffed bodyparts is not a flattering look for anyone, but I feel more sorry for the guy who saw me.

In Palas de Rei we saw a church offering stamps for our pilgrim credentials. Celine Dion’s version of ‘Power of Love’ was being played loudly over the Church PA system, so naturally we went in. The stamps were extra special for the wonderful musical accompaniment.

We met Jellyfish Blister-girl in Palas de Rei again. As she was struggling with her feet, I carried her bag for a few kilometres. Some people thought I was being chivalrous, but it was actually just a handy excuse to walk slowly. Also, as I was wearing it on my front, had I fallen down, it would have provided a very nice cushion to my front. A number of people commented on my carrying of the extra bag, so I offered to carry their bags too. Luckily they recognised the look of exhaustion and agony on my face and declined my generous offer.

We’re staying in a small municipal hostel in the tiny hamlet-let of Casanova. A French lady checking in at the same time translated for us, and explained that while there was no food available in the hostel, she could arrange for another hostel to collect us, feed us and return us in time for lights out.

The same French woman later explained that we were in fact unwittingly the victims of a Galician cartel, whereby municipal hostels have ill-equipped kitchens to force pilgrims into local eateries.

At €9 for a three course meal, all the wine we could drink, and a return taxi ride to and from the restaurant, I think I’ll hold off on writing my letter of complaint to the European Commission office of Anti-competitive behaviour and Consumer protection.

We’re in a very small room with ten beds and nine pilgrims. I’m beside a terrible snorer, a notorious early-riser, and the same French lady is still voicing her loud lengthy opinions on the failings of the Galician hostel industry. I really wish I had drunk more wine.

While my Dad was here, the one thing he missed was the opportunity to have a bath after his long day’s walk. As I know he is hoping to come back to complete the Camino in a few years, I’ve been researching the availability of baths. The results of my research are below.

Buen Camino

Startpoint: Samos; Endpoint: Portomarin; Distance walked: about 37km; Steps taken: 48,453.

I have been walking a month! Dad and I left St Jean in France on 17th September to cover 788km. A month later and there’s less than a hundred km left to go.

I was woken early by the rustle of plastic bags and squeaking of flip-flops. My alarm hadn’t gone off, but my phone had dropped off the bed during the night, so maybe it had broken. Somebody turned on the lights to a mixed chorus of groans and sighs. Groans from the sleepers and sighs from the early risers. I finally found my watch: 6.30am. I joined the groaners.

I was on the road by 7.30. It was still dark, so I wore a headtorch. I started by walking on the road with farms on my left. There is something very spooky about passing a field of huge pumpkins by torchlight. I shivered uncontrollably and wished I wasn’t alone. Then I realised my water tube was caught in my pack and leaking down the back of my shorts. I fixed it. Stopped shivering and was glad I was alone.

Based on my map-book, I estimated I had a 5km walk back to the main track. I estimated wrong. It was a lovely walk through oak forests, mucky farmyards and tiny villages, but it took my over two hours, so more like 9 or 10km. I joined all the other pilgrims at 9.30am already exhausted and with sore feet. Most people had an hour’s lead. I stopped for a coffee until most people had a ninety minute lead.

Today I passed Sarria, which is the last big town before the 100km mark. It’s the minimum distance before Santiago to get a certificate of pilgrimage (or Compostela) from the Cathedral office. It therefore marks the startpoint for many pilgrims. I passed group after group of pilgrims on their day one.

Soon after Sarria I saw a group of people gathered around the corner of a building, all taking photos. There were six or seven people taking multiple pics each. I walked around the building quickly to find out what the attraction was…
Cows. Three normal, boring, everyday cows. Nothing big, weird or odd. Just cows. I haven’t photographed a cow since [checks notes] a month ago!

A little later I passed a person taking photos of every yellow arrow showing the way. There are about fifty such arrows every kilometre. I passed that person fairly quickly. I wonder how big their memory stick is.

Then it began to get misty…
The new pilgrims all stopped and panicked getting out their raingear and struggling into ponchos. I laughed and walked on in my shorts and t-shirt.

Then it began to drizzle…
The old pilgrims all stopped and grumbled and got into their damp, muddy raingear and ponchos. I laughed and walked on in my shorts and t-shirt.

Then it began to pour. I whimpered and walked on, sure it would stop soon.

After two hours, I crawled shivering and dripping into a barn to change my t-shirt, before putting on my rain jacket. As I was shirtless and wet, a couple of Spanish pilgrims looked in and offered me all the dry clothes in their bags. I had some chocolate instead. It helped.

We’re staying tonight in Pontomarin. In the sixties, they moved the old town and the castle-like church, stone by stone, from the valley floor about 300 meters higher up, to allow them flood the valley. Crossing the new bridge, we could see the old roman bridge and ruins from the old town rising out of the river below. It was quite beautiful. Three of us were lucky enough to get a private room in one of the hostels. After our stuff had been in it for a few hours, it smelled like a kennel for wet diseased dogs.

Buen Camino.

Startpoint: Hospital da Condesa; Endpoint: Samos; Distance walked: 25km; Steps taken: 35,030.

Yesterday, I crossed the border into Galicia and stole a march by going an extra few kilometres while everyone else was massaging their feet. Today, Galicia took its revenge. It was windy. It was raining. The gales were so strong I was nearly knocked off my feet (slight exaggeration) and my hat was blown off my head (no exaggeration).

I started the day wearing my full waterproof gear. The waterproof trousers were a bit loose, so after twenty minutes, I tried to tighten them by pulling the drawstring. The drawstring snapped. My pants dropped. My shorts got wet. I lost more time and energy today pulling my pants up than fighting against the wind.

I fancied I could smell the salt of the ocean on the rain, but that may have just been my own sweat rising up from under my goretex.

Walking down from Hospital, my feet crunched on windfallen chestnuts and walnuts. It gave me an appetite, so I stopped in Triacastrella for lunch. They had no nuts on the menu, so I had a huge omelette sandwich and a plate of mushrooms fried in 3 full heads of garlic. My breath was so strong it could have taken out a vampire at a hundred paces.

On the road I met an Irishman. He was somewhere between my age and my father’s, but had the same folical stylings. We discussed the advantages of sandals over boots, the pattern of hostel availability and related economic considerations, and the prevalence of graffiti on the Camino way-markers. It was nice, but it wasn’t the same.

After Triacastrella, I decided to leave the recommended route and take a detour for the Monastery at Samos. The monastery is one of the oldest in Europe, having been around since the 7th century. It’s a huge complex for such a small town in the middle of nowhere. You can imagine it housing hundreds of monks at one time, but it looks mostly empty now.

We arrived at 2.30 and were told we’d have to wait until a tour at 3pm to look around. We asked if the tour was available in English and were told it was, so we paid our €3, got our cards stamped and sat down to wait in the cold lobby in our damp clothes. There was no coffee shop, there were no customer toilets and there was no door on the lobby. I was in two minds about waiting for the tour or moving on to the next town. I’ve seen more religious buildings in the last four weeks than are healthy for anyone under the level of demi-god.

At 3pm, the tour began, in Spanish. I asked about an English translation, but was told that out of respect to the Spanish speakers in the group (four out of eight), the guide would not say anything in English. I explained that we had checked with the receptionist and had only waited and paid because we were expecting an English tour and was told ‘tough’.

I frowned, looked sullen, whined, pestered and basically made myself a nuisance, until finally she agreed to repeat the highlights in English for the English speaking “minority”. However she would only do so in certain spots and when she felt like it. Her English was perfect, so I don’t know what her problem was. The tour was a bit boring anyway, so maybe she was trying to save us the trouble of pretending to be interested.

The monastery was largely destroyed by a fire in 1951 and then rebuilt and restored. They had three Spanish artists paint murals on the upper floor of the cloisters. The murals were painted in the 60s, which comes through in the depictions of the saints, monks and angels. I’ve never seen angels wearing mascara and lipstick before. They were showing a lot of leg and two were flashing some side-boob. I suspect this is a clever tactic to encourage more young men to join the monastic life. I’m sorry to say the naughty angels were the highlight of the tour. More churches should have them.

Buen Camino

+++

Optional Reading:
If you’re enjoying the blog and have a few bob to spare, there is a fundraising page to donate to Concern’s work with eradicating poverty (link below). If not, no worries, keep enjoying the blog!

http://www.concern.net/yourconcern/dermot-magee/camino-de-santiago-de-compostela