Triumphant

Herrerias to Fonfria (Wednesday, June 23rd) Today, we conquered the second mountain, O´Cebreiro! As Stella came up over the crest, she held up her arms ala Rocky, tada! O´Cebreiro (pronounced Oh-thay-bray-ERE-a, according to our guidebook), is 1300 meters, and actually, we also crossed Alto de Poio (or O Poio), at 1337 meters, the highest point in Galicia and on our trip, a short time later. Even though we had dreaded this mountain a little, it wasn´t so bad. The first third, from Herrerias up to La Faba was a little difficult. At first we shared asphalt with the cyclists, but quickly branched off onto wooded, steep and rocky paths. There was actually a section, though, that seemed rather like a little hidden paradise, a bit primordial, and, as no other pilgrim was immediately in sight before or behind me, I felt as if it was just for me to savor. As if I were an Eve in my very own Garden of Eden. I stayed there a few extra moments, a welcome break during the most arduous part of the morning. Then, I finished the steep climb up to La Faba and I was quite ready to get there. On leaving the little village, I was slightly confused by the yellow arrow and couldn´t tell which of the paths to take, left towards the fountain, or straight ahead. As has happened so many times, a person, or perhaps a guardian angel, just appears out of nowhere and points the way. Stella says we have big 'L´s' on our foreheads for ¨lost¨ and everyone in any town just seems to know what we need and where to take us. It has happened so many times it´s amazing. So this guy just appears out of nowhere and indicates that I´m to take the straight ahead path. Only then do I see the other yellow arrow which says that, too. Meanwhile, he´s asking me where I´m from and I tell him Ëstasdos Unidos. He tells me (he has to tell me twice before I understand him) that the people who live in the very house we are standing in front of are from the US, specifically Connecticut. Who would choose to live in this out-of-the-way village? Nice house. Definitely someone who wants to REALLY get away! Thanks to this man´s assistance, I am on my way again. The second third, to La Laguna de Castilla, is much less steep and more open, less rocky. I take a break at a little bar-cafe in Laguna. Two little minivans let out a group of older touristy Camino travelers who don't really look like they are dressed for hiking. I assume they are just going to do this one segment up to the top of the mountain, but I will end up seeing them a couple of days later. It seems they travel by van from place to place with a guide and walk selected short sections with little day packs. Everyone does the camino their own way, rather like life. The last part of the mountain is not so demanding either. And the whole way up is just one breathtaking view after another. I periodically pause just to take it all in - not like on the way to Hunnto because I have to, but because I want to; it is just so beautiful and my pictures don't begin to do it justice. I have no idea how many miles we can see for across the valleys to other peaks. It´s a long ways. We have entered the province of Galicia a short while before reaching the top of the mountain. At this point, there are only 152 km to Santiago! At the top of the mountain is a reconstructed little Galician Village. Galicia is one of the poorest regions of Spain. The buildings are stone. Corners are often rounded, I think so that spirits cannot hide in them, but I might be confusing cultures. The design is pre-Roman in origin and they are called pallozas. Roofs here are slate shingles or perhaps thickly thatched. The only original buildings at the top are the church, Santa Maria a Real do Cebreiro, which is one of the oldest (pre-Romanesque) churches along the entire pilgrimage route, and the hospital (in the care of pilgrims, not like we think of it) connected to it, which dates to the 9th century. There is also a memorial dedicated to the man responsible for the Camino the way it is today and developing the way of marking it with the yellow arrows. I step into the church and there is a mass being said in German. I listen for awhile and am able to follow along with a lot of it. I go back out to the topmost point of the mountain and take a 360 degree look around the surrounding countryside. There is also a monument at the top marking the spot where a pilgrim, lost below in the fog, heard the sound of bagpipes being played and was led to the top of the mountain where he found safety and shelter. There is another marker commemorating a 14th c. miracle, when a less-believing parishioner actually saw the bread and wine turn to the body and blood of Christ, the Holy Grail, here. That miracle was later incorporated into the coat of arms of Galicia. Galicia has been Celtic for centuries, so there is a strong influence in the language and customs. I wait for Stella to catch up (tada!) and then we check out the little touristy shops. They have some nice things as well as schmaltzy. I find a pretty pair of Celtic design earrings for Laura who is looking after my mungos (Gaelic for beloveds) back home - Nicholas and Oliver. Stella picks up a few things for her granddaughters. Then we begin the trek down hill, well not quite downhill as there is a little bit taller mountain nearby (O Poio), but then we begin to descend. It's another gloriously sunny day. We walk mostly through woods, especially pines. We walk down and down and down. We pass through some small villages and by some farms. The poverty of Galicia makes it a 'no frills' kind of place. The people are practical to the bone. We end up for the day in the town of Fonfria, a very small town, the name of which derives from 'a cold fountain' that I never managed to find as I walked around later. The hostel is a bright spot in an otherwise incredibly bleak little town. All of the other buildings, at most 20, are concrete block, mostly two story, with cattle and farm equipment on the bottom floor and the human inhabitants on top. There is no ornamentation of any kind on any building except for the hostel and a small bar/cafe on the far end of the village - a whole 3-minute walk away, if you take your time. To get to the other end of the village, one has only to walk through the cow-manure, cow-pee, straw and farm equipment laden streets. There is nothing that is not of purpose here - absolutely everything has to do with the livelihood of these people. It's purposeful, but not exciting. I make several loops through the village because, after doing my laundry and not being able to take a nap due to the horrible choice of music playing in the bunkroom of the hostel and not being able to use the internet since the computer is broken, there is not much else to do. I did get a picture of a hound dog on a roof (haven't ever seen that before!), and I wondered how a dog gets on a roof - especially a dog that moves at about 1 mph - until I realize the back side of the house is built into the side of a hill! Stella comes out to walk as well and we explore around the small chapel and surrounding cemetery that don't look like they are ever used except for weddings and funerals and certainly not recently. The hostel itself is great, with a little cafe/bar in front, with a courtyard garden, a common room, a large bunk room and a big dining room and kitchen. We sit out in the courtyard with a couple of beers until dinner's ready. There isn't any other option for dinner besides the hostel, because the cafe really doesn't have much in the way of real food, but that's fine, even though dinner is late in coming. The dinner table is long and probably seats at least 25 or 30 folks. The multi-course dinner is wonderful, with soup and pasta and great bread and more. And the man and woman who serve it all up are fabulous. Stella and I are seated near several Germans who are anxious to get done and watch the World Cup match with the German team playing that night. (Unfortunately, they lose.) The young lady who sits next to me is a very extroverted, very engaging nurse who wants to become a midwife. She and the attractive, dark, curly-haired guy across from her have quite a verbal sparring match of wits during dinner. The young man to my left, at the end of the table, is from Venezuela. He and his wife are in Madrid where she has the power job and he is the stay-at-home dad to their small child. They both can't wait to get back to their home country, though. It is a very fun evening. Two mountains down; one to go.

Quiet

Villafranca to Herrerias (Tuesday, June 22nd)
We left Villafranca early and ended up taking the optional path, along the road, without even realizing it. We simply missed the preferred path because you really had to look for the trail where it branched off. However, because of that, we had a really lovely view back over Villafranca shortly after leaving. It almost looked like a fairy tale village caught in the mists of time, between the mountains.

This was actually the one segment of the journey that I was very apprehensive about because of one of the books that I had read before leaving for this trip. One of the authors had talked about this segment as having two options - either a very steep and difficult climb through the hills or else along the highway, pinned quite narrowly between speeding vehicles and a guardrail with a 50´dropoff. Fortunately, much has changed since that book was written - perhaps because of it! The steep climb was the route we inadvertantly missed. And in the last two years, the government has built this engineering marvel called the autopista, the Spanish version of the autobahn, that has taken almost all of the traffic away from the highway which we are traveling. Perched on concrete props way high in the air, with just little, itsy bitsy guard rails for safety, it's a road that would terrify me to drive on. I am, however, delighted that it draws so much traffic away from us hikers! In addition, they have erected concrete barriers to separate pilgrims from cars, which are not traveling all that fast now - it's the "Sunday" drivers who don't mind taking the slower route who are on this road. Often, the river is running over the rocks down below us in a nice bubbly way. And there is a guard rail on that side as well. It's a delightfully sunny day as we wind our way through the hills on either side of us.

There are some neat little villages and stops along the way - we stop for one break in the little village of Trabadelo, where the only business seems to be the bar. For such an out-of-the-way place, it has a pretty nice bathroom! In another village, we stop to watch a sawmill in operation. Stella takes pictures for her husband, David, who works with a lumber yard.

Another rest break is at a real truck stop where a school group is also breaking, so there are lots of kids. One thing that is hard to get over as we walk through the cafe/bar to use the facilities is the amount of trash and litter that just gets thrown on the floor. You cannot possibly walk across the floor without walking on the napkins, cigarette butts, straw wrappers and other miscellaneous items. It almost covers the floor, especially around the stools. No one uses the trash can, and no one leaves it on the counter! It's just amazing to American eyes. We look around a gift shop that has lots of interesting products, food and otherwise, from all over Spain. They're fascinating, and some are even enticing (like the cheeses, the chocolates, the nuts, the wine...), but way too heavy to carry, so we leave with nothing. Except on the edge of the parking area is another vendor of fresh cherries. This is the best buy yet, a humongous bag of cherries for just one euro! We indulge yet again. Instead of being a threatening day, it is a quite enjoyable day!

We share a number of kilometers on our journey with Ian, a 62 year old Danish accountant, who has decided to get away for awhile. (That's him up ahead in this picture before we catch up to him at a break.) He is fun to talk to. Like a number of our foreign encounters, he asks what we think of our president. He also talks about how the Danish provide for their people in many ways. It´s a whole different way of looking at life - and what it means to be in community as a nation and a people.

We reach Herrerias by early afternoon. The alburgue isn´t open yet, but it looks cute with its hand-decorated "shutters" - actually just the rocks painted to look like shutters, so we go put our feet in a mountain creek - it is SO COLD! My feet can take about 2 seconds, but Stella´s are made of tougher stuff apparently. I work on labeling some of my pictures on my computer instead, just in case I ever get to load them on this blog or for viewing later. Eventually, we get into the alburgue. A young, lithesome Spanish woman named Miriam runs the place. She nonchalantly says we can check in later and mentions that she does a vegetarian dinner from her own garden if we´re interested and we indicate that we are. She shows us to our bunks. Then she disappears for a long while. So we get cleaned up, take a nap, go wander. Eventually others come. We meet Richard, Miriam´s American significant other. Richard is from Chicago. He was running a nightclub when someone pulled a gun on him one night. He decided that he no longer wanted that life. He bought a one-way ticket for Madrid. While he was there, he heard about the Camino and decided he needed to do it. Seems while he was walking the Camino last year, he was walking through Herrerias and Miriam caught his eye - ooh lah lah! He stayed four months. Then he decided he needed to finish the Camino. But he came back and they realized they had missed each other so much that he´s been there ever since. If you could see this little village that has no stores, just two little bar-cafes and this alburge, a handful of houses, some barns and a church, cows bawling and roosters crowing at all times of day and night, you would have just a small taste of how much Richard´s life has changed. Now he wants to try and help change his brother's life the same way.

Around 5 p.m. I ask Miriam what time dinner will be and she just looks at me funny and says, "Oh, you should have told me!" We thought we had. Oddly enough, some Spanish guys who came in just before I asked her did end up getting dinner, but it probably worked out as it needed to. So we wander a half mile down the road to the only other place to eat, the place where we had lunch. The walls are pretty much the exact shade of periwinkle that I am thinking of painting my kitchen. (While we are gone, Stella's sweetheart of a husband is completely redoing her kitchen!) We are early for dinner, so we have a glass of the local white wine at a cafe table outside. The fat, lazy cat lounges near us.

Martene, a French woman we have walked with and been keeping pace with on and off joins us for dinner. It is a deep and touching conversation, a sense of communion, of truly breaking bread together. As we have with so many other pilgrims, we talk about what has drawn us to the Camino and what it has been like for us. This is Martene's second time to walk it. There is a sense of mystery and darkness or sadness about her, though she is happy tonight. We talk about redemption and forgiveness and second chances and we toast to them. There are tears and smiles. We have an absolutely wonderful dinner with the best paella yet. It has a little zing to it, which the others have not had, and clear, distinct flavors. Then, I ordered fish, and actually eat the little fishies that came out of the stream that cows drink out of (and you know what in) and certain people have soaked their feet in. Didn´t really think I´d eat fish that came with their heads on, but - thanks to Stella's coaching - once I get past just cutting the heads off and pushing them aside and pretending they aren´t there, it is fine. I probably have all kinds of chemicals in me from the fish I´ve eaten out of local streams over here, and from the roadside cherries we´ve bought, but you know, it has all tasted very good. And you only go around once. Maybe the local beer and wine have killed those local germs.

After dinner, we walk through town, which is to say, we walk back and forth down the one real street. Martene has talked about a house that she is interested in buying. Apparently, when a house is listed privately, the Spanish would rather see the property crumble to dust, or eventually be turned over to a relative rather than sell to a foreigner - or at least some foreigners (like Americans). They do not like intruders in their little villages. Martene is a dreamer, and it's doubtful that she will ever really buy a house in Herrerias. She stops to peer in the darkened doorway of a dilapidated house, and both a man's voice and chickens cackling shoo her away! At some point, Martene drifts off into a conversation with a local. We pass this artful composition, and I can't help but smile and take a picture. There are cows down in the pasture, perhaps 75 yards away from the alburgue. For once, we have a window open all night for fresh air. Who knew that cows can bawl so loud? The next time you hear "Äway in a Manger", when they get to the part about the 'cattle are lowing,' just know that they can make one heck of a noise, and it isn´t always some gentle lullaby for the Christ Child! But it´s kind of nice. In a very earthy, down-home kinda way. Mooooo-ooo-ooo.

Lengthy

Ponferrada to Villafranca del Bierzo (Monday, June 21st)
Today was a long day, even though it didn´t seem like it really should be, and especially since we took a ´short cut' - but you know how those go. We left Ponferrada and were pretty happy to do so. This was the dirtiest of all the towns and cities to which we have been. By far, it has also had the most graffiti, with lots of it appearing to be gang logos, claiming various buildings or properties, like dogs marking their turf. As Mac Davis used to sing about Lubbock, TX, it was good to have Ponferrada in our rearview mirror.

There was a section of the downtown where there was public art and some older buildings,
but the "nice" part of the city was minimal. On the way out of the city, as soon as we are out of the grafitti-laden area, we stop for coffee and tea and toast at a little pastry shop. There are only three others there when we first arrive, but the place quickly fills with other pilgrims and a couple of locals right after us. Once we are back on the road, the Camino routes us through a neighborhood that seems very American - two story, larger homes with large yards, 'curb appeal', drive ways, etc. Very different from what we have seen before. Somewhere in this neighborhood, we find a church with murals painted all around the exterior of it.



Then, for only the second time on the Camino, we are routed through a building. As we are leaving, we pass a site where an old factory building is being preserved and re-purposed into offices and condos. Not far away, there is a very modern, but not attractive building that looks like a couple of dominos precariously balanced on one another. Then we are finally out of the city and breathing country air again.


As we walk through the countryside, we notice that they have erected poles specifically to encourage storks to nest and we realize that we haven't noticed as many storks' nests in the cities and villages lately. Perhaps the architecture in this region doesn't lend itself as well to being hospitable?

We stop in a little village for some limonade part way through the morning as it is already hot and take a load off our feet at the little table and chairs outside. There is a small chapel which actually sits in the middle of the road just in front of the cafe. The inscription above the door says it is 15th century. Notice the pilgrim art used as a gate so that you can observe the inside but not go in.

In this area, we discover yet another way of marking the Camino when we are out in the countryside! We walk through an area with several small towns, and for the first time, find ´country homes,´ where people live in between towns. Up until now, there have been almost no houses anywhere except in villages or cities, but here, there are actually farmhouses and ´suburbia.´ We also enter into the town of Cacabelos, known, as the signs said, as one of the major wine city-areas in Europe. Alas, we do not have the opportunity to partake of any of it. But it is a very attractive area and a pretty little city.

Villafranca is our destination for the evening. We have an option of going two ways. We take the ´shortcut´ which supposedly saves two kilometers. What the guidebook doesn't tell us is that the entire way is UP hill. Or it certainly seems like. In retrospect, I do remember one downhill stretch along the road, where I was looking up at the next uphill stretch! It is one of the hottest afternoons on the Camino. Much of the path is a dusty road through fields. Along the way, we pass a place that manufactures what have to be some of the ugliest and largest yard art available.

I just don´t think I can go around another bend and see another uphill looking at me when our trail finally comes out on the other one. If that was the shortcut, I would hate to see the long one. Those people (the ones who DIDN'T take the short cut) look quite refreshed. Hmmm...

The city of Villafranca is very interesting. As we first come into the city, we see the 12th century Romanesque church which was originally a substitute for pilgrims who could absolutely not make it any further to Santiago. The road from this point on, especially in previous centuries, was very difficult. The church has a beautiful, carved big door that was called the Door of Pardon (Puerta de Pardon). Pilgrims could enter there and receive the same absolution that they would have if they had gone the whole way. This door is opened only during the Holy or Anniversary years.

There was also a beautiful castle built in the 16th century for Peter of Toledo, and the convent at the Church of St. Francis of Assisi, as well as other interesting buildings. Like many of the towns and cities, there is a river running through the middle of the city, and part of the city is built into the rocky hillsides. Our alburgue was the whole way through town, and across the bridge, but it was worth it. Called¨"La Piedra,¨the Rock, it was built into the rock wall of the mountain and had rock coming into the building on every level. It was magnificent and a lovely place to spend the night. I wish I had taken pictures of this alburgue, but alas, I did not.

A flyer in the alburgue advertised back and leg massages. I asked the young woman who checked us in about it; turns out, the massage therapist was her mother. So I booked a 5:30 appointment to have her mother work on my legs, especially my calves, which are extremely tight and bothering me a lot. We did our usual routine of cleaning up and laundry - there is only a very tiny place to hang it out the back window in between the building and the rock wall and heaven help it if you should drop a piece! There are also a few racks inside, but it doesn't seem as if it will dry well, so we only wash what we have to. While I'm waiting for 5:30, I tried to use the one computer, but a man was hogging it, so I spent time downloading pictures from my camera to my netbook and trie to label some of them. About 5:00 pm, the massage therapist showed up and opened up her table, right in the middle of our top floor dormitory. She had a 5:00 pm appointment with a man who had been keeping about the same pace as us for a number of days. He's dark haired, nicely built - Spanish, I think, because they chattered on quite a bit. Apparently he was going for the works. Towards 5:30, I started to pack up my stuff and move towards the edge of my bunk, making it look like I am ready for my turn. She made no effort to stop at my time. She went on, taking very good care of every one of his poor muscles until about 5:50, and as soon as he hopped off the table, she suddenly started to fold up the table! "But wait, I was your 5:30 appointment!" I call out, and of course she looked purposefully vague. She said that her daughter forgot to tell her about me. Hmmmmm. I am not a nice, dark haired, good looking Spanish man. She said she had to go to another town and she was to be there by 6:00. But I was in too much distress with the tightness in my muscles to let her go so easily, so I forced her into a massage. She took it out on my legs; it is all I could do to grab the edge of the table and grit my teeth not to scream. I have had deep tissue massage, and I knew my legs were in distress before, but this is something else! She probably loosens some of the muscles, but for the next week, I have bruises all over my legs where her fingers have pressed too hard. So I guess she ended up with the last word. It was still a hurried massage and she rushed out.

After I was through with the massage-torture, Stella and I walked back into the city to look around and get something to eat. We run into Ale from Argentina again and he told us that Charlie was there as well. It turns out that Ale has ancestors from this city, and so he was looking up some of his family roots. It was also Charlies' birthday, so he was celebrating somewhere. Ale was on his way to the cathedral for a service, so we parted and continued to wander through the streets. We found our way to the square where there were a number of open-air cafes. We were already eating when who should come up to us but Ed & Terry from NY and Ronnie from FL again, as well as a couple of other familiar pilgrim faces. And guess what? The massage therapist who had somehow made it back from the other city and is having dinner with a couple of gentleman friends. Hmmmm. Again. Villafranca is a really enjoyable little city - very walkable. As we were walking back to the alburgue, we met an inscrutable cat, staring out from an open window of a delapidated building, right next to the bridge over the river. His attitude reminds me of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. We didn't seem to bother him at all. I think he takes a lot of the world in from his perch there.



As we are settling in for the night in this otherwise lovely alburgue, the woman on the lower bunk nearest ours comes in. She begins, seemingly in the slowest manner possible, to unpack shall we say, on the conservative side, 4328 plastic bags or other things that rustle from her backpack. It takes her forever. She is oblivious to the rather disgusted sound of both Stella below me and I on the top bunk tossing and turning, and coughing, and clearing our throats, and sighing loudly. And in the midst of it, the younger woman who is with her, possibly her daughter comes in. They get into a somewhat heated discussion. Stella and I are both afraid (as I later find out) that the younger woman does not like how the older woman has been re-packing and she wants her to start all over again. It is all very inconsiderate of everyone else in the dormitory who have all gone to bed (but not to sleep) already. Apparently at some point, they finish their rearranging of everything, and equally apparently I know I eventually drift off to sleep. Needless to say, we are not so very quiet as we are preparing to leave in the morning and they are still in bed!

Rocks

Foncebadon to Ponferrada (Sunday, June 20th, Fathers´ Day)
Lots of kilometers today, probably at least 30. We started the day early, before the sun got over the mountains as we let the sleeping dogs lie in Foncebadon. It was a 2 km climb up to the Cruce Ferrus, or Iron Cross, on the Camino, a renowned spot where a small iron cross sits atop a tall wooden pole surrounded by a huge pile of rocks and other memorabilia. Everyone brings rocks from home or picks up one there and leaves it or leaves something else behind. Some say it is to leave behind the burdens of life that you have brought to the Camino. I have brought with me two small stones I picked up on a road near my house when I was out walking before this trip and carried them with me all this way. Unfortunately, I forgot to get them out of my pack before we started out and we shipped our packs ahead this day! I will have to leave them at one of the many other crosses along the way. But I did pick up another rock, larger than the two I brought, and I left that at the top of the heap, as well as a burden. It's interesting what a tangible ritual can do to make real an interior grace, but that is what sacraments are for, then, isn't it? Stella and I took pictures of each other up next to the pole and a kind pilgrim took one of both of us together. And then we each took pictures of other pilgrims as they came up. Then we were on our way again.

Today´s walk had two peaks to it, one of which I think is the highest point on our whole walk (if it isn´t, then that awaits us day after tomorrow). But we were already within 150 meters of the summit of the mountain so it wasn´t so bad, but it was a little drawn out. The harder part of today´s walk was actually the descent. It was rocky and very long, and in some places rather steep. Descents are hard on the knees and ankles and they also take lots of concentration. I´m more like a goose than a mountain goat, I think, in coming down. I can´t take my eyes off the trail or I will be on the ground. There are lots of ruts, lots of striations in the rock, lots of loose rocks to watch out for. And sometimes, there are places where water runs across or collects and it is downright messy. The downhill took the better part of the day. All in all, we were on the road for 8 - 9 hours today, counting a couple of short breaks.

Our first break wasn´t until we reached the lovely little town of Acebo, about 10 km from Foncebadon. In this part of Spain, the red roof tiles have changed to dark gray slate, perhaps because it holds up better in cold, wet weather. Because of so much natural stone to be found, the buildings are almost all stone. The bar-cafe was lovely (the bathroom earned an outstanding rating: hot water, soap, TP, a REAL towel!, not to mention lovely tiled walls and floor, and a beautiful brass basin and faucet). It doesn't get any better than that! And it was a lovely little bar with delicious pastries to go with our tea and coffee.

At the bottom as we started up yet another long, rocky trek, we came across a woman selling the most wonderfully sweet, dark red cherries. It's curious that they seem to be at the base of these hills...hmmm... Stella bought a big bag of them and we enjoyed them all the way up the hill. I'm surprised there aren't more wild cherry trees growing because of all of the pits we saw discarded! Somehow, those sweet cherries make the steep climb a bit more endurable. I'm thinking the vendors know this.

We passed through a little village and Stella needed to get some batteries for her camera, so we stopped at a little tiende, Josefina's. Josefina had postcards and photos sent from all over the world attesting to her reputation for the 'best bocadillos' (little sandwiches) in the world! It wasn't time for lunch, so we didn't test out the testimonials, but we enjoyed our conversation with this lovely lady.

On the way out of the village, we came across another memorial (we have passed a number of them) to a pilgrim who had died. This memorial was obviously to someone who was 'a bici,' on a bicycle. The memorial was at an intersection, so perhaps the pilgrim, I think it was a German guy, was hit by an automobile. It's always sobering to see the memorials - people with the same goals, dreams as us, in the midst of making them happen, but cut down in one way or another. Life is indeed uncertain.




Along the way, we ran into a herd a sheep trying to get home. The poor things were scared of us and the path was narrow, so they tried to avoid us in any way possible, even if it meant trying to climb a straight up shoulder to the path about four feet high. Those that couldn't get up the little hill scooted around us as quickly as they could avoiding eye contact and glad to be on their way, unscathed. One black sheep went by, well, rather sheepishly. For us, it was interesting to watch their behavior from the middle of the herd.

We stopped again in the very pretty little town of Molinaseca where I finally found a postcard and a boxed example of a Torte de Santiago, a Santiago cake! It's taken at least three-quarters of the Camino to finally find it! We had a little pastry (not the cake yet) to sustain us and then began the final 6 or 7 km to our destination of Ponferrada.

Had we known that the final 6 km would be so drawn out, we might have stayed in Molinaseca, but we kept trudging along. We got to the alburgue and checked in only to find (when we call the transport company, because the alburgue wasn´t honest enough to tell us) that they had refused to accept delivery of our backpacks. Stella and I were not happy campers. So we had to walk another 3 km or so across the city, find the other hostal, get our packs and walk back. If we hadn´t already checked in here and given our donation, we would not have stayed at that alburgue!

Ponferrada is not such a wonderful city (not just because of the above). We realized that as we were walking here for quite a distance. There is a 12th c. Knights Templar castle in the middle of the city and the rest is modern and not so attractive. A river runs through it, but they don´t do much with it. It will be okay to leave tomorrow.

We share a four-person room tonight with two guys who have the other bunk bed. One of them seems to be quite ill, but we aren't quite sure what is wrong with him. A doctor comes to see him. He will stay behind tomorrow with the doctor's permission.

So now, there isn´t much to do here this evening except watch our laundry dry. I´m sitting next to a young lady named Grace from Alaska. She´s taking a break from salmon fishing, which is how she and her brother earn money for college. She heard about the Camino and thought it would be a great alternative to fishing. It´s nice to have a conversation with another American! And Grace does know how to talk. And talk, and yes, talk some more. Perhaps she is a little people-starved in Alaska... Okay, now for some Torte de Santiago!