(Warning: this is a long one!)
Day 8: I hit the half-way point between Leon and Santiago, and
cross from Leon into Galicia.....
I leave at 7, slipping out along the river, weaving through what there is to see of Las Herrerias, as cowbells stir and roosters crow. I know I face a climb, and as I head up, I am in conquering mode, with one goal:
Get.
It.
Over.
With.
A wooded track cuts into the dark earth, ferns and trees growing precariously out of its banks, and after more than an hour of following it, twisting uphill, a beautiful valley unfolds, and more views are forthcoming in all directions, even one glimpse of the mountain range crossed days ago. Ahead, the way is cloud-covered, and the wind chills my ears, but it’s perfect for uphill exertion…
Passing through one last Leon village, the cows milling out of the barn are quite vocal, dogs barking and adding to the ruckus, as I dodge cow pies on the path.
As I pass into Galicia, I take a last look back… but the bells in O’Cebreiro are tolling, calling me on, so I pass into the mist… to my left is oblivion, so I am grateful for the stone wall to my right, leading me into the celtic hamlet. The warmth of the church embraces me, but after a sello I must answer the more urgent need for food. And caffeine.
A fresh-made tortilla and a piping hot café con leche, a beautiful rest, and I force myself back out into the chilling breeze and loitering clouds, knowing I still have 23 kilometers left to travel.
As I leave through twisted pines, the sun does its work, and blue skies prevail; views roll out: a patchwork of green fields dotted with yellow flowers.
The next few hours blur together.... a sun-drenched stone wall outside a country church. An incline that ends with the handshake of a local brown-robed priest. Grazing cattle and invisible streams of trickling, life-giving water… and cow sh*t. Everywhere.
Friday, June 21 (day 9)
Sarria, 10:42 pm
The sun just set over Sarria, casting a pink-and-gold glow as the full moon rose on the summer solstice.
Today was a roller-coaster, and there were a few times I would have loved to get off.
As I sipped my coffee this morning, and crunched my crunchy toast, I took a moment to acknowledge my crankiness.
It was threatening rain.
I swear my just-washed clothes got damper overnight.
The room was cold and the mattress hard.
I slept badly.
And other first-world complaints…
But reality was my legs were sluggish and my brain, like the hills, was foggy.
And when facing a fork in the road, I opted for the longer, but flatter, route, assuming that the extra kilometers were a reasonable exchange for the lack of incline.
I have to say that once I started, I felt better.
The air cool was and damp, and even though I was forced onto the shoulder of the road, I tried to focus on the sounds of the river and the more gentle sounds of rivulets of water seeping from the cut rock faces. I was thrilled when I left the road for a dirt rack shaded by vine-covered trees that followed the river Obrio as it rushed, fell, murmured and meandered. Purple bell-shaped flowers shone with dewdrops and just begged to be brushed with a fingertip.
In a small village, the river met a small stream, and the buildings of the village made no attempt to avoid the cacophony – either abutting or straddling the water, which provided, I imagined, a constant background noise for daily life.
After an uphill push, the monastery of Samos could be seen, commandeering the valley below.
Seeing as how the next tour was only 20 minutes away, I figured it would be best to see the inside…
There were several aspects of the monastery that grabbed my attention, and if I had time and access without a guide, could have held it for quite awhile:
The babbling fountains in the central courtyard gardens.
The mural wrapping around the second floor hallway: an epic struggle involving monks, nuns, angels, and demons. The scenes incorporated the necessary breaks in the wall: cloaked figures perched above a doorway, a struggling angel clinging desperately to the corner of a window.
The light slanting through the 3rd floor windows, casting stripes on tiled floors.
A cathedral, full of echoes and a quiet sense of magnitude.
The scenery remained beautiful – lanes winding through villages, face-to-face encounters with herds of cows, delightful groves of trees, burbling brooks, yellow flowers sending petals drifting into my path... clearing skies and a pleasant temperates.
But, alas, I was an ungrateful pilgrim.
My earlier crankiness returned with a vengence, and I barely registered the beauty around me, seen as it was through a thick veil of negativity. My pack felt awkward and unnaturally heavy, my shoulders aching… the only saving grace was that my legs felt fine.
Finally, the routes merged, and after a quick stop, I (glumly) trudged the last hour into Sarria, and arrived in a dehydrated, cranky state that left the ground shifting under my feet, although I was standing still.
As I berated myself for not doing so earlier, I cared for myself: water, food, shower, sleep; and around 6:00 I was much happier and ready for a wander about town.
Keeping an eye out for the perfect place to sit and write, I made my way up the cobblestoned streets of the old quarter. As I reached the last set of umbrellas and faced a decision, I noticed Emma and Sarah, the Irish duo from Herrerias, chatting with another american – another Sarah, who walked form SJPP to Portomarin before being sidelined and sent back by an ankle injury.
We settle in a restaurant at a shady outdoor table, the owner smiling and making comments in spanish that were not directly translated but were clearly welcoming. We had a lovely dinner as an increasingly large crowd gathered… and it soon became clear that something was about to happen in this small square, as microphones were tested; adorably-dressed small children and instrument-toting teenagers began to appear, as did groups of men and smartly-dressed ladies.
Not willing to give up our prime seats, we ate our dessert of Santiago tart slowly, piecing together the fact that today was the festival of San Juan and that the festivities were most likely related to this event.
Curiously, we watched as bagpipe-type instruments began to play and a parade of large paper-mache figures paraded past… one or two that looked saintly, and another few that looked like the stuff of nightmares.
The adorably-dressed small children danced in a suitably adorable way, then speeches began from the balcony. I understood about one word in ten, but the crowd-watching kept me entertained when I’d lost the thread completely. (that, and we were firmly entrenched, so getting up and leaving could have resulted in dirty looks - or a rush on our chairs).
Finally, a single firework was lit from the balcony, the teenagers played some sort of anthem, and we slipped out, after the waiter flawlessly remembered our multiple orders and delivered the bill.
Down to the street fair, which was a rather unimpressive row of shopping and carnival food and games, save some hippie jewelry by the river. But it was nice to be out and about in a town with the locals, feeling like a part of not only this pilgrimage, but also the daily goings-on of spanish life.
Saying goodnight and heading back to my hotel, I realized that the day’s earlier exertions were all but forgotten, and I feel refreshed and renewed.
(Which was important, as it allowed me to merely smile as I realized that some sort of all-night rock fest was happening on my side of town, and my open window was letting in the hazy guitar riffs in all their glory).
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