Camino: Rabanal to Ponferrada

My internal alarm-clock wakes me early today, Day 4 on the road... I am eager, but my muscles are feeling their daily exertions, and I set my feet to the floor gingerly...

I'm out of town in seconds, the dirt track climbing through fields and flowering yellow shrubs, cow bells ringing in the valley, and the sun slanting its rays across the landscape.

I stop for coffee in a village with a sweeping view of the plains I am leaving behind, and a sense of more hills ahead.  At first, the loud music is off-putting, but the hot, fluffy croissant and face-lifting sunshine makes up for it, and as I prepare to leave I find myself in conversation with James and Bethany, and we hit the road together, a pleasant distraction up a winding uphill stretch.

Soon we reach the high point (literally and figuratively) of the day – the cruz de ferro, ­stretching into the blue sky, a stark and simple monument that rests atop a complicated pile of stones and fluttering scraps of fabric.

Pilgrims climb the pile and leave their own offering, a memento of the path already traveled, be it a smooth stone from a far-off homeland or a pebble picked up along the Way. We are leaving a piece of ourselves as tangible proof that we have been here.

Two Italian men carry their wheel-chair bound friend to the top of the pile, perching him on a large stone to smile widely for pictures. I have seen them these past two days, the entourage following him as he uses his arms to power down the road, and I silently wish him well as he heads into more mountainous terrain.

 The scenery unfolds ahead as we leave the cross: rolling hills covered in a patchwork of green, brown and purple and patches of snow on distant summits. Truly, truly stunning, especially under bright blue skies.

Next stop, a ‘hippie’ shack in an almost-deserted village (population:1), with drinks and trinkets for a donativo. Noticing the walking sticks on offer, I mange to communicate my desire for some sandpaper, to further improve my own.

Wanting a bit of time to soak in the scenery in solitude, I let Bethany get ahead of me (I will come to regret this decision later, but it seems right at the moment), and am elated for the next hour, moving upwards through groves of trees hanging with moss, more flowers and more views, and a breeze bringing relief from the sun just when it is most appreciated.

As Ponferrada’s suburban sprawl becomes visible, spreading through the valley, the descent begins: a rocky, dusty endeavor that requires pausing to admire the view, to avoid tripping on a rock while doing so. I reach Acebo, where the overhanging balconies and their houses have been beautifully restored.

Real food seems like too much work at this point, and none of the cafes appeal to me, so I have a quick snack and air out my feet, perched on a rock, and then set off again. (this, too, I will regret later, and will learn from on future days).

 The views remain beautiful. There is another adorable town. A grove of ancient chesnuts spreading shade, their thick trunks twisted and branches gnarled… but by this point, I am tired of downhill, tired of the hot sun, tired of watching my feet avoid tripping hazards… and, just when I would have loved some distracting conversation, there are no other pilgrims in sight.

It is one of those moments where I have to remind myself that I chose, quite deliberately, to be here, doing this. 

Finally, I reach the rushing river in the town of Molinaseca. In front of a church built into the hillside, a Roman bridge spans the water, and brings me to my lovely hostal,  where my room is waiting to welcome me with open arms. Collapsing on the bed, I almost take a nap in all my sweaty glory, but force myself to shower and do some laundry, which makes the nap all the more glorious.

Thus rested, I wander for awhile, then settle in a café by the river, have a beer and write. The clouds have moved in, the breeze is cool and hints of coming rain. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the locals sit and chat amongst the pilgrims, while groups of teenagers wander and splash in the river. Spanish pop music plays from the speakers, the waitress occasionally singing along.

I notice Ivar and Irma sitting a few tables away, a couple from Florida I had met crossing the river Obrigo, and saw earlier today in the small store down the street. I stop by and say hello, meet Ian and Susie from Australia, and am invited to join them for dinner. We order, dip our feet very quickly in the very cold river, then settle in to delicious food, wine, and conversation; sharing stories and observations about the Camino and our ‘real’ lives.

At one point, we are talking of the odd moments emotion can overtake us on the Camino. One of our party, describing an emotional moment from days past, says: “It wasn’t the religious side of it, though we were in a church. It was just that so many people care about what are doing.”

How true. My mind flashes to earlier, when I stopped into the very store where I saw Ivar and Irma. Narrow, the place was piled with fresh produce, frutos secos, packages of cookies and crackers, the usual small assortment of toiletries, and a fridge from which I plucked a bottled water. On my way to the register, the shopkeeper pressed a handful of trail mix into my palm. A small gesture, but it carried large meaning: Here. I know you are tired. Let me nourish you, just a little. 

Day 5  

I awake to chilly air creeping in the open window and the unmistakable sound of rain dripping from everything, and as I slowly come into my body, I can feel every muscle of my legs aching… and am infinitely glad that I have worked in a short day today.  I take my time getting ready, sip my café con leche, and wait for the rain to abate.

Moving slowly, I head out along a country track that keeps me off the road, before shooting over and around the long way into Ponferrada. A few stinging drops fling in my face, but as I crest a hill, I can see the sun lighting the hills on the far side of the valley. Through cherry orchards, I have the road to myself, and the sound of barking dogs follows me through the deserted streets of a small village.

It feels like October, clear and cool, and though a small part of me wants to take advantage and keep walking, the other part of me is all too happy to arrive in one of a string of squares and know that I have reached the end of my day, even though it is barely noon.

Ponferrada's castle looks imposing against the sky, but even a nice tour is not an option as it’s closed on Mondays. 

Wandering down cobblestones, I soon spot the glinting hat of Roger, the Man From Ohio, who I first met on my way out of Astorga. (Little did he know that I desperately needed some company in the midst of that cranky morning). We settle in for a chat and a drink, both content with reaching the end of our walk for the day. 

Looking out over the square, I experience one of those intense moments where travel is everything that is should be. There is nothing else quite like it: sitting in a middle-of-nowhere town, looking at beautiful buildings, with a cold beer, good company, and nowhere else to be.... and relishing the intense sensation of being completely unknown: no one here knows me, and no one who is not here knows quite where I am.