Day 1
A slow start, taking advantage of a gorgeous breakfast, finding the set of yellow arrows leading away from the cathedral, casting one last gaze upon its spires.
A lovely forest stretch gives way to a boring city stretch, which gives way to a wooded uphill that is unexpected and seemingly never-ending. It does, of course, end, and I let the downhill on the other side carry me to the bridge at Maceira.
Here I nestle myself into the roots of a sturdy tree, lean back against the rough bark, enjoy the cool shade and the sounds of the rushing river. Having bought myself a book at last, I spend a few hours happily immersed. When my eyes start drifting closed, I move to a sunny rock in the river’s flow for a nap, before tackling the final hour into Negeira.
Day 2
Eager for the road, I leave without coffee.
A beautiful church on the way out of town; neighing horses and conversation with two Spanish women, some uphill through eucalyptus.
But no coffee.
Approaching a small village, I spy a line of figures on a bench, leaning against the stone wall behind them, faces lifted to the sun, as a water font trickled.
A bus stop?
Nope. A line of peregrinos taking their morning break, sharing segments of juicy oranges.
I say hello. I express my desire for coffee in the very near future.
I carry on.
Still uphill, but now there are moments of paths through fields of newly planted corn.
The breeze is lively, the windmills are turning, the views are expanding.
But there is still no coffee.
The group of not-bus-riders catches up with me as I take a quick break for a snack and to shed a layer in the warming sun. I fall in with them as we turn onto the road; conversation begins to flow.
I soon find out that this group of 8 men are Austrians, completing the final stage of their Camino… from Austria to Finisterre.
Over the past 10 years, they traversed the Camino from Austria, through Switzerland, Lichtenstein, France, and Spain on the Camino Norte. Leaving their wives and children behind, they set off every summer, for a few days or a few weeks. A few of them speak English. We talk of children and Tokyo and Camino experiences, until (finally) happening upon a bar with an inviting, sun-filled porch.
It is 11 am.
I desperately order coffee.
The Austrians get beer.
Singing a toast, they clink glasses.
Singing a toast, they clink glasses.
A plastic chair is proffered, so I join them in a pleasant
whirlwind of German and English and Spanish.
They depart, I loiter, chatting with two young people at
the next table over, before picking up my stick and carrying on down the road.
And it is a lovely road, undulating through fields and villages, the breeze is fresh and clean, creating that perfect balance with the warmth of the sun, windmills humming on the background.
Soon the way branches off onto dirt tracks through grassy fields rippling in the wind, birches and pines and oaks whispering… and with no other pilgrims in sight, I am content to stride and sing and twirl my stick, feeling as if I could carry on like this forever.
Eventually, the plateau evens out, and there are some small villages to pass through and a river to cross, before I happen upon a small park that invites me in with a cushion of grass in the shade.
As the afternoon is waning I reach the bus stop in the middle of nowhere that is to be my pickup location for my accommodation for the night.
So out come the journal and the pen, as I perch on the awkward bench and wait.
And then a van arrives, and I hop in.
Within moments I am feeling nauseous.
The van feels as if it is traveling at tremendous speed.
After moving at an average pace of 4 kph for the last 16 days, the 60 kph feels like a bullet train.
Or a roller coaster.
It is a bullet-train roller coaster.
The hotel was a little off the beaten path, but the dinner and breakfast were delicious, and I was delivered back to the same little bus stop the next morning to continue my journey.
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