Sarria to Arca - getting close now...

Sarria to Arca

(Days 10-13)

These four days brought rolling hills and increased company, as many pilgrims joined the Way for the last 100 kilometers, the required distance to receive the Compostela, the official certificate of completing the Camino. 

Portomarin is a white-washed town on the banks of a wide and slow-moving river, visable from above long before it is reachable. As I approached, a group of musicians played their not-quite-bagpipes, sending music out across the water, drawing pilgrims across the bridge. 

Groups of young people added their chatter to the stretch from Portomarin to Palas de Rai, and when it started to border on annoying, I would simply drop back and admire the sweeping views - deep green pine forests, rolling fields, stone walls - and let them pass. 

 One group caught my attention with their midwestern accents, and I had the pleasure of meeting a group of young people from a church in Michigan, who planned and financed the trip themselves; they kept me going through a rather boring stretch of road-side walking.

In Palais de Rai, I cleaned up and headed out into the breezy sunshine. A nap in a churchyard, stretched out on the grass, left me feeling relaxed as I wandered down the streets, looking for signs of pilgrim life. I spotted one of the lovely Irish ladies in the main square, and joined her for a few hours of soaking up the sun, filled with the contentment that comes from living the moment you are in, and moving only to amble across the road for a round of cider or to escape the creeping shadows as the afternoon began to wane.  Sharing the sunshine was a group of pilgrims who were meant to be napping, as they planned to set out at dusk, to walk by the light of the full moon and the fires of the festival of Saint Jean. I had a fleeting desire to join them, as I imagined it will be clear and cold and lovely. 

I left Palais de Rai with the sun rising on peaceful lanes and the full moon hanging in the sky. Delivery vans were lined  up outside the bakery, ready to race off along country roads and deliver fresh-baked goodness to hungry farmers, office workers, and pilgrims. 

Eucalyptus trees became more common, adding a dry-leaved rustle to the soundtrack that also included the rippling waters of multiple river crossings. 

The small villages shifted back to red-tile roofs and whitewashed concrete.

Crosses and fountains.

Fields and cows.

One last incline before my lovely alburgue, just over a river where young people are soaking their tired feet.

A nap under flapping laundry. 

Sampling local specialties (pulpo - grilled octopus - and grilled sweet peppers) with some lovely folks at dinner. 

 After Ribadaiso, there were green groves and rustling eucalyptus, a few small rivers, and one village where the path dodged erratically, under arbors and past crumbling walls.

Arca de Pedrouzo isn't all that impressive, but it has the distinction of being only 20 kilometers from Santiago de Compostela.  Here I had the chance to have dinner with a fellow Minnesotan I'd met along the way, a beautiful and brave woman named Anne. She was one of only 3 other pilgrims in the alburgue that were not part of the large group of young people who made sleeping a bit of a challenge that night... and who I partly blame for the fact that I started my final day on the Camino Frances by breaking and entering....