Camino: One week in....

The Ponferrada suburbs try to hold me back as the sun breaks through in fuschia and gold, but eventually I make it out, as clouds break in waves over the mountains behind me and the sky hangs dark and ominous. The way ahead, however, stays clear for the moment. 

After crossing the freeway the asphalt becomes a dirt track, winding pleasantly through vineyards and past rustling poplars.

Reaching the point where I’m ready for a break, but wanting to make it to the next town, I catch up with a familiar, long-bearded figure.

I have seen him here and there since that first night in Mazarife, where he checked in with two other people, all with impressive camera equipment.

His tattooed legs are moving slowly, and dangling from his like-wise tattooed arm is a Canon 5D with a monster lens.

My compliment about this is not received well.

He “hates this f%$#-ing camera”, (and after carrying it hundreds of kilometers, I can hardly blame him.)

One of his legs hates going uphill.

The other one hates going downhill.

And for the next few kilometers, I am fascinated, for this Greek man is a world-traveling photographer, having been to over 80 countries and captured Tibetan monks to war-torn lands.

As we walk the long central street of Cacabelos, passing friendly locals, he begins to look for a place with coffee and an ashtray, dismissing a few before spotting what he proclaimed was ‘his place’.

And that was that, for I had not spied MY place in this town (It is a curious thing, that some locations call out to an individual, compel them to stop there, and others do not). 

On the way out of town, after crossing a lovely river, the road climbs up and I slog along the shoulder, trying to focus on the beautiful breeze and the surrounding scenery, and then celebrate the departure from asphalt onto the ‘camino viejo,’ by taking a moment to stand with my face to the sun and crunch through an apple, with vineyards sloping away before me, sweat drying on my back, birdsong in my ears, and the sheer luxury of having nothing else to do.. 

The next hour is more rolling vineyards and cherry trees dripping with shining fruit, and then I ramble through a little village and find my place to rest – la casa de Estrella, a shady haven with a tiny ‘kitchen’ and wobbly seating options. I am two strides past when I turn about and decide to enter – after all, I am not in a hurry.

The pink rosado in my glass is cool and earthy, the techno-trance music lulls, and poems by the likes of Pablo Neruda are scattered on the walls. My little dish of olives is a perfect snack, and an adorable local couple takes the table next to mine for an afternoon coffee hit… the woman pats my cheek, calls me cute, and tells me to be careful (I think). 

A woman, who I make out to Estrella, comes over and, in lieu of a sello, offers a handful of tiny, pink nuggets of quartz, her gift for passing pilgrims. I carefully lift one from the pile, place it away safely, and wonder if it will make it home. 

My arrival at Villafranca de Bierzo is complicated by some bad map-reading, but eventually I shed my pack next to a bunk in an airy attic room, complete the usual routine, and force myself out the door for a wander. The streets are lovely but lonely, mostly deserted around stately churches, a rushing river, and a beautiful garden, so I make my way to the central square and settle in under an umbrella, to wait for company that eventually happens along; evening falls as I swap travel stories while the chilling breeze swoops into the valley. 

Wednesday, June 19 (Day 7)
Today was lovely.

When I slipped down from my top bunk, my feet hit the floor without pause, my calf muscles loose and relaxed. And as I headed out of town on an uphill path, I felt invigorated by the incline, and my pack felt light. 

The climb  provided views of the unfolding valley behind, with the rising sun slanting across its floor, illuminating the distant hills; red rocks glowing between emerald greens, streams glinting as they fell, clouds frothy like blowing snow… and, as the trail leveled out and began to undulate along the ridge, rain began to fall, drawing a shimmering veil and muting the brilliant colors. 

Beneath me, civilization was still evident – an elevated highway criss-crossing the valley, carrying industry along its merry way; bright spots of pilgrim ponchos on the road at its base.

But for now, I was above it all, at the top of the immediate world. 

The breeze was fresh and insistent, carrying the promise of rain, and I eyed the ominous clouds hanging low and gray over the peaks, made sure my poncho was at the ready, and tried to focus instead on the lightening sky to my right, where scraps of blue were being revealed.

At a rather undignified moment (just finishing up a pee, if you must know), I stood up to see something I had hardly dared hope for – a rainbow. Colors curving out of thin air,  deepening into an arc that stretched from nowhere to nowhere.

I lingered until there was only a small orange-yellow glow, barely visible against the yellow flowers on the slope across the valley.

Rain spattered as I entered a grove of terrible and beautiful chestnut trees, and I donned my poncho; at a fork in the road, a spanish man and I exchanged the universal signs of confusion before choosing a way and, ponchos flapping, walking in companionable silence until it became clear we were on the right path. He outpaced me as the trail begin to zig-zag down into the valley – I was reluctant to re-enter the world of roaring semis and whizzing cars.

The elevated freeway criss-crossed the valley, man’s stark (yet impressive) scar on nature’s beauty, but the Way hugged the old road, following the twists and turns of the river Valcarce, which raises its determined voice to counteract the hissing brakes and roar of tires. The breeze was still fresh, the sun teasing with moments of warmth; rustling poplars soothing, emerald fields rippling in the wind, a castle peering down from a hilltop; rusty locks watching the water flow around them, useless now.

When I see the (relative) opulence of my casa rurale for the evening, I am almost embarrassed... but decide to accept it and make the most of the chance for solitude and reflection. Soon, I am perched in my open window, sipping wine, with only the gentle symphony of rushing water, birdsong, and cowbells to distract me from my journal and my thoughts. 

Eventually, however, I need dinner, and down the road I head, to the only other place in sight, where I happen upon two lovely Irish ladies, and then join a German-speaking trio for dinner. Frank and Michaela are walking together along with their small dog, and Rachael from Switzerland met them this morning. They graciously switch from German to English for my benefit, and I am intrigued to hear that Rachael is going to attempt the morning’s ascent by horseback. 

The sky is still glowing with the sun’s light as I eye the hills I will soon have to climb and turn into my delicious bed.