17 | July | 2023 | The Book of Barnabas

Well, here I am in Galicia, just about the only part of Spain that isn’t suffering the ferocious heatwave that is sweeping across Europe right now. With temperatures soaring into the 40s in a red wave from Madrid to the south, I’m more grateful than ever for the merciful Atlantic winds that keep Galicia fresh and green. Santiago certainly picked his spot with Spanish summers in mind…

I didn’t sleep much last night, though I must have dreamed a fair amount. I’m pretty good at waking myself up on command, because I knew I needed to be up in time to charge my phone (the sockets were all in use when I got back last night) and lo and behold I was up without provocation at two in the morning.

I’m already used to functioning on less sleep than is healthy from my work in a boarding school, so when five thirty came around I was already on the road. The vending machine gobbled up my euro and gave me a self-satisfied LISTO! when all it gave me was a plastic cup and a deceptive whirr that most definitely did not produce any hot chocolate… but, serves me right for using a vending machine.

I was sorely tempted to join the less than 1% of pilgrims who take the Dragonte route up through the mountains this morning, but as yesterday was a Sunday, I hadn’t been able to buy supplies, so I chose caution over valour and took the basic route. If I’d had my faithful stick I might have chanced it, but… it is what it is.

I did, at least, have the sense to stop for breakfast at a bar in Trabadelo, where the tortilla was decent, the napolitana was delicious and the Cola Cao was divine.

I’ll say this much, it might be the basic option, but it’s a lot better a route than it looks. On a map it seems to follow a road almost all day, which it does, but with the construction of the A-6 Noreste motorway, pretty much all the traffic took the high road, leaving the Camino almost devoid of cars. And since even the sight of a car at the moment makes me think of the intensive course that may or may not be coming my way when I get back (it’s proving hard to find an instructor who’s free), that was some relief!

The Valcarce river flows alongside the Camino for most of the route, providing a gurgling backdrop to the walk. I kept my eyes open for otters, which are sometimes seen in the river, but I didn’t see any. I did see the other thing I was looking for though: a dipper, just as I left the road at Las Herrerías. The characterful little things are a feature of most highland rivers in Spain, if you keep an eye out for them.

It wasn’t easy to catch on camera, but I found considerably more willing subjects in a gang of long-legged Spanish chickens further up the road. The way they were going, they looked as though they might have been making the pilgrimage themselves! Though I was briskly disillusioned when the rooster started sizing himself up to me, squaring off like a boxer in a title fight. Feeling a hard pass on letting him test his spurs on me was a good move, I left them be.

After the picturesque village of Las Herrerías, the real challenge begins. A 600m climb and then some stands between you and O Cebreiro, the first town beyond the border, and boy are the first few hundred metres a challenge. Thank God I played it safe this morning and took the easy route! It’s a beautifully forested climb, but a climb all the same…

After La Faba (where the fountain water is so deliciously cold that my bottled water needed jettisoning immediately) the Camino climbs ever higher through one last stretch of forest and then up into the sunlit highlands of Castilla y León’s final outpost. I must have gone on ahead of the others, because I only passed a few intrepid pilgrims up here. It might not have been heatwave material, but the sun was high up by this point and the lizards were out, including the giant green occelated kind that used to fascinate me as a kid. Most of them were well under cover before I saw them go, but one lingered long enough for me to see where it was hiding. Can you see it?

La Laguna was little more than a cluster of farm buildings, and after that it’s only a few more hundred metres up to the border. I did have one unexpected roadblock in the form of a wayward herd of cows, whose youthful cowherd was desperately trying to coax away from the path. The cows had other ideas, and it took a few minutes to get by.

A colourful stone statue marks the border. Now I’ve set foot here in Galicia, there are only two comunidades autónomas left in Spain which I haven’t explored: Murcia and the Canary Islands (assuming one doesn’t count the Moroccan enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla). I almost stepped on a stoat that shot out of the verge on the final climb up to O Cebreiro, and while it was much too fast for a photo, the views from the top of the mountain absolutely screamed for one – or several.

I managed to beat Google’s initial suggestion by forty-five minutes, but since the albergue didn’t open until one, I had a sitting nap and waited – my feet were just dead.

I had lunch with a random assortment of new pilgrims, mostly Americans, in a hotel-restaurant-giftshop affair. How to put it politely… I’ve had more tolerant company for lunch. Most of the Americans I’ve met abroad have been the most refreshingly open-minded and charismatic characters I can recall. This bunch were memorable only for their moans. Two of them were off on one for the full hour about how rude the Spanish are, slating the food, the service and the hostaleras, all while unironically claiming their status as Americans entitled them to fair treatment.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I paid my fare and apologised to the chef. I did not go back.

Fortunately, my faith in America was restored by the welcome return of a meseta pilgrim, Simas. A chat over a half pint with another open-minded pilgrim was just what the doctor ordered. Bumping into two more Catholic Americans while paying the bill was an added bonus.

Mass in O Cebreiro’s 6th century church was really special. The priest spoke from the heart, juggling several languages throughout, and blessed us all with holy water and words of power. At the pilgrim’s benediction at the end, I volunteered to read the closing prayer when an English speaker was required. Perhaps I just wanted to read a prayer for my fellow pilgrims, or perhaps it was a subconscious dig at the fact that, Americans aside, there was only one inglés in the room. (If that was it, God, please forgive me that little victory!)

As a parting gift, the priest gave us each a little stone with the yellow arrow of the Camino. I’m holding mine now, its tiny yellow arrowhead forking through my fingers to the northwest.

Now I’m watching the sun set over the rolling hills of Galicia. It’s been a long day, but a good day. Simas and I will make for Triacastela tomorrow, while others shoot for Sarria in a mad rush to Santiago. Here’s to eveybody’s journey – may they find what they’re looking for! BB x