Archive for February, 2005
February 25th, 2005
On the day that we are high tailing it out of the Port capital of the world (one has to smile – Bordeaux, Cognac, Rioja, and now Porto…some healthy walking tour this is turning out to be) I am dropping a quick line, as I am not sure when the next internet cafe will be. We have been here for longer than anticipated due to the first serious rain Portugal has had since October. Excellent timing. Our tent has been far too wet to pack up for a few days, but this morning dawned clear – if a touch on the firkin side – and we are on our way once more.
We are finally getting a grip on Portuguese food and wine (particularly the port). The local speciality of Bacalhau, fish cured with salt, is never going to do it for me unfortunately, but there are plenty of robust, homestyle dishes which are great. It is suprisingly expensive after Spain. Used to both of us eating out, with full three courses, for well under twenty euros, we have found it more like thirty here. Hence, we are back to self catering on the campstove as much as possible. Ah, the joy.
Sadly our wonderful long lunch hours have also disappeared. In Spain, nobody eats lunch before one o’clock; and, really, it is considered rather barbaric before about three. We could still go into a restaurant and be sure of ordering lunch at four. Dinner starts at around eight, and runs anywhere up to eleven. The shops shut between about one and five, and open late into the night. Bizarre as it was at first, we had become not only accustomed to it, but major fans of the whole late lunch, tapas and wine for dinner kind of set up. Now we are back to normal hours it all seems utterly indecently early and quick. Racing to grab lunch between twelve thirty and two is enough to give one indigestion.
Every country has it’s oddities; in France it was the complete close of business on Mondays which took us a while to adjust to, in Spain the mad hours, and now in Portugal, it’s the phone system. Which is fine – if you want to call a fixed landline inside Portugal. Try doing anything else, and you had best apply to Donald Trump for a wee bit of pocket money to fund it.
On the upside – pig ignorant though I realise this comment is – life here is made immeasurably easier by the fact that English speaking is so prevalent. Either people speak English, or I can get by in French, which is a major bonus given how non-existant our Spanish and Portuguese is. Even better, there are loads of camping grounds. And they are all open. After our recent encounter with Gun Wielding Psycho Cop, we are heartily relieved to be spared illegal camping for a while.
One thing which seems to have remained the same between here and Spain, though, and to which I am in danger of becoming heartily addicted, are the unbelievably cheesy, camp-as-a-pitched-rubber-tent soap operas. Trust me, daaahhling, you can have no possible concept of how truly, appallingly bad these things are, until you find yourself in a cafe somewhere over lunch staring at the vaseline smeared lens shot of some scantily bikini clad page three girl rolling around in a pseudo pornographic manner whilst speaking on the telephone to a Burt Reynolds circa 1970 lookalike lounging in a wicker chair and silk dressing gown revealing chronic chest hair. The opening credits to these things make the start of Home and Away look like Tarantino at his finest. Every bad cliche you never knew you had seen, combined with muzak so bad even Michael Bolton would heave, means that even without understanding a word which is being said I am becoming familiar with who is bonking who, which sex god is currently in a coma and being fought over by rival bonkettes, and the Mr Nasty behind the shady drug deal. It’s definitely time to keep walking. It’s not my fault, you must understand, it’s the fact that it has been raining, and hence we have been eating in cafes, and due to the stupid lunch hours we are always in them at the same time, and, and, and….
We are heading down the coast now and don’t plan on stopping until Lisbon. Given the utter rubbish in this post, I think it’s best, don’t you?
February 21st, 2005
Walk, walk, pack up, walk, unpack, walk – it could get monotonous, if it weren’t for the little curve balls life enjoys throwing every once in a while. We have had more than the odd one, this week.
The two days walking in and out of Barcelos were not so great. The day in was supposed to be about 29km; we figure we did over 35 by the time we finally got there, and it was past dark before we were settled somewhere. We had been walking since early that morning, so we were a little shattered. The following day we got lost within 
minutes of leaving, and spent nearly two hours doing some interesting surveillance work on the city of Barcelos before eventually leaving it behind. What was supposed to be an easy kind of a day stretched into a bit of a long one, hiking down a rather deadly road with trucks thundering by us within inches, so it was with huge excitement that we walked into the tiny village of St Pedro de Rates and discovered – oh joy – a final pilgrim’s Albergue. We honestly thought we had left them all behind in Spain, so the sheer bliss of finding a proper refuge, complete with hot showers, kitchen, and beds, was truly wonderful. We sank delightedly into slumber, determined to rise early and head for Porto. It was 35km away, but we figured we would make it ok if we got an early start.
We got a great start. Like every day since leaving Santiago, the weather was beautiful, and after a good night’s sleep we set off at a cracking pace. The architecture has been radically changing in recent days, and we stopped by a typical whitewashed church, very different 
from the crumbling Romanesque style of Galicia. More and more they are either of this type or Moorish influenced, like this tiled example.
A couple of hours down the road, we came to an old bridge, which had obviously recently crumbled away. It was fenced off most determinedly from our side. Concrete bollards were cemented in front of it, and heavy wire mesh was bolted into either side and the bottom. Plainly, the Powers that Be had deigned the bridge unsafe for traffic of any kind – pilgrims following little yellow arrows included.
We sat and ate some chocolate and contemplated things awhile. The bridge was in a pretty bad way; even though we thought we could easily cross it without coming to harm, climbing over or around the wire mesh was going to take some doing. From the hill above the river we had seen that there was no alternative bridge within several kilometres, so unless we fancied some major detouring, there was no other foreseeable crossing point. Our third option lay in front of us.
At some point a concrete platform had been built in the river, over which it ran shallowly, cut in the centre by a channel through which the bulk flowed. If we could walk across the shallow part and leap the gap, we figured, we could make the other side. After a little more chocolate we decided that this was the best course of action, and, swapping our boots for flip flops, waded into what can best be described as slightly sub-arctic water.
Hey, we even took photos for your amusement.
Much chattering of teeth and brave leaping of chasms later, we sat on the other side, munching on chocolate again and feeling rather proud of ourselves. We had even gone so far as to put our boots back on, ready to walk out the other side.
Which was when we realised that it was impossible to walk out the other side, because there was another bit of bloody river cutting us off from it.
There is no way you could see this from where we had started. In fact, it took us until we tried to walk that we realised, but there was absolutely no way off this stupid little isthmus except either through river number two, or back over the way we had come.
And so the discussions started. Should we:
-
go back over the river and do a detour
-
as above and attempt the wire mesh/bridge option, or
-
attempt to cross the rather wild looking river number two?
Unfortunately, river number two really was a little scary looking, with big boulders, some very swift moving water with no visible bottom, and a sudden drop off point. However, hell would freeze over before I was willing to volunteer for an indefinite detour, and I couldn’t imagine how we would possibly get over the wire mesh thingie. In general I was in favour of option c. Gary, on the other hand, remained “unconvinced” that this was the best option. (you will notice that there are no photographs of river number two. This is because the conversation began to get a touch heated at this point, and hence picture taking went off the agenda.)
After twenty minutes or so of this dithering, and as I began to see my prospects of a long lazy sunset dinner in Porto slip away, I decided it was time to take decisive action and announced my intention to cross river two. This was not a popular move, and I gathered my belongings to the insistent protests of my dearly beloved.
“But what if it’s deeper than you think?”
“I guess I’ll get wet, honey.”
“But what about the computer/camera/etc?”
“That’s why we paid for water proof bags.”
“But what if you fall and hit your head?”
So, ok, I didn’t have an answer for that one. But sometimes a girl has to emasculate her husband, so in I prepared to go.
Just as I was about to take the plunge, so to speak, we both looked up to see a walker who, very casually, was strolling across the top of the bridge. I gestured wildly – can we cross? He looked at me like the idiot I am, and indicated that yes, we could, it was a piece of cake and what the hell were we doing in the river?
Back off our boots came, on with the flip flops, back through the shallows and over the chasm, until we stood once again in front of the wire mesh.
The thing was, the other guy had come in from the other end, and wandered back the same way, so he hadn’t had to negotiate the mesh factor. But after nearly having the domestic to end all marriages, there was no way I was going back to river number two, so after an enormous gymnastic feat – no legs should have to do the splits diagonally, and particularly not after the age of thirty – we found ourselves on the collapsed bridge, which we crossed hastily before it could decide to disintegrate completely.
Somewhat huffy with each other by this stage, we strode on moodily toward Porto. Ah, but the Gods were not done with us yet. Not by a long shot.
By about four o’clock it became patently obvious to us both that after the long river delay, unless we didn’t mind walking into Porto city centre at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, we might have to look for alternative accommodation. We started to scout around for somewhere to camp.
Eventually we found a dead end road in an industrial estate which had a patch of eucalyptus scrub in the centre. It being a weekend, we 
figured there would be no-one around. There was a clearing in the middle, so we set up camp and cooked our dinner. About halfway through, someone walked by, 100 metres or so away, and stopped for a bit of a look. We gave a cheery wave and they went on their way. And that, we thought, was the end of that. We crawled into bed and dropped off pretty early.
Just after ten we both jolted awake at the same time. There was the sound of crackling twigs underfoot which was way too loud to be an animal, and we could hear low voices. For a minute we were frozen, wondering if they would pass by, and then we both realised they were definitely coming for us. Gary went for his stick and I for the knife; they were coming from my side. A man called out in Portuguese, something I couldn’t understand.
“Hola!” I yelled out – useless, but then I know sod all Portuguese – and began to unzip the tent.
He yelled out something else, and I called back (in Spanish) that I didn’t speak much Portuguese.
“Police!” he called, and Gary and I nearly fainted with relief. “I want speak with you!” he called to us, and suddenly we felt tense again. He didn’t sound like your average friendly bobby.
“I’m coming,” I called back, and tried frantically to extricate myself from my sleeping bag whilst at the same time unzipping the various parts of the tent. Gary was doing the same on his side. When I finally got it open, I was nearly blinded by a flashlight, and he said again, “you come out! I need speak with you!” I yelled back that I was trying, and reached inside to try to unzip my bag. He obviously misinterpreted my actions, because at that point he yelled again in Portuguese and pulled his machine gun up so it was facing me.
Now, I don’t understand any Portuguese, but it was plain even to me that he was saying something along the lines of: “I have a Very, Very Big Gun, which right now is pointed at all of your extremities, and unless you put your hands up immediately I intend to make a Very Big Mess.” I had no intention of arguing with that rather scary little muzzle, so I threw my hands up where he could see them. Unfortunately, at the time, I was wrestling, seal-like, on my stomach with my sleeping bag, so throwing my hands up meant I performed a less than dignified face plant. One would think that the sight of a pyjama clad woman attempting to liberate herself from a sleeping bag whilst at the same time keeping her hands high in the air would be enough to reduce the nastiest of militants to, at the least, mild bouts of hysteria; but oh, no. Obviously they still bore suspicions I was really an undercover Al Qaeda operative running a subversive training camp in the midst of Portuguese suburbia.
“You come out now, all of you, I need speak with you.”
“Yes, I KNOW that,” I said through gritted teeth, “we are trying to get out. And there are only two of us: my husband and I.” At that moment Gary appeared from the other side of the tent, and it was his turn to have the gun trained on him, whilst I managed to get out of my very warm but exceedingly encapsulating bag and into an upright position. We were still being blinded by his mate’s flashlight, and threatened menacingly with a rather enormous looking gun, so we weren’t making any sudden moves.
“Where the other one?” he asked a couple of times.
“What other one?” we asked; “there is only us, an Australian couple.” We always slip in the Australian bit. It usually helps, for some odd reason.
It did this time, too. After making doubly sure there was noone else hiding in our tent (you must be joking – it might say “three man” on the label, but not unless they are anorexic pygmies, in my opinion) the gun finally got lowered and they started speaking to us normally.
Turns out nosy bugger from up the road had called the police and reported that there were three men (gee, thanks) camped in the bush, behaving oddly. I don’t know what constitutes odd; I wouldn’t have thought going for a leak and cooking some rice qualified, but then again, I’m Australian – what would I know? But after checking our passports, and seeing our pilgrim’s credencials, he realised that the only crime we had committed was in being dumb enough to walk from London to Portugal. I don’t know that we did anything to improve Australia’s reputation internationally by being found camped in an industrial area with Gary’s jocks drying in the breeze, but, hey, what do you do.
In the end we had a laugh, they apologised and left, and Gary and I changed our underwear and quietly had a nervous breakdown.
Ah well. I’m sure it is the first of many times we will have a gun pointed at us on this trip. Have to say though – not a great feeling.
So, we got up, packed up, walked to Porto, unpacked, and camped – legally, this time.
It would all get a bit monotonous, if it wasn’t for those little curve balls…. 
(does he look dangerous to you….?)
February 16th, 2005
We walked across a bridge, and here we were: Portugal. The bizarre thing was, on the Spanish side, there was nothing but a rusty, cracked old sign to indicate that we were about to enter a 
new country, whilst the "Espana" sign was a flash, new, bright blue thing. Once we crossed the bridge, of course, it was the exact opposite. Interesting neighbours, then. 
Despite the fact that we have been through the change of country thing a couple of times now, it is still an odd sensation to wake up one morning, in a place where everyone speaks one language, and by lunchtime, have walked into another country with an entirely different language and culture. Bizarre, but rather fabulous.
At the risk of sounding horrendously cheesy, the Camino Portuguese really could be marketed as “the friendly trail”. I guess the Camino Frances, which we followed to Santiago, is so over subscribed these days that pilgrims are just a part of the landscape, a permanent passing parade, and despite the odd “hola”, are generally ignored. It couldn’t be more different along this route.
All through the Galician section, and now into Portugal, not only is the Way itself absolutely 
stunning, but the locals are incredibly friendly. If it looks like we are going the wrong way – which, let’s face it, happens on a daily basis – they stop whatever work they are doing and yell out to us, waving wildly, and pointing in the right direction. After we have stumbled around and finally found it, we glance back to shout our thanks, and get a big clap and wave in return. Despite our utter lack of Portuguese we are always greeted with a warm smile and an eagerness to help. Whether this marked difference in attitude toward pilgrims is due to the fact that this route is less often used, or just one individual’s perception, I am not sure. But we are loving it.
The Way itself is truly beautiful. It is strangely reminiscent of Australia very often, as it winds through great forests of eucalypt and wattle trees, and amongst bracken and ferns. 
There are 
countless old Roman bridges over pretty streams, and some really enormous
medieval bridges, like this one.
Every day the weather has been just amazing. Blue skies, bright sunshine, and a light breeze; absolutely perfect walking weather. Through Galicia we were still able to stay in Pilgrims’ accommodation. The albergues along that part of the route are great – most of them are converted old stone buildings with excellent facilities. Now that we are in Portugal the albergues have stopped. But we have discovered that quite often pilgrims are allowed to sleep in the “Bombeiros”, or fire stations, which is pretty cool, and there are also quite a few youth hostels. So we are dodging the tent for a little while yet (luckily, as although the days are warm, the nights are still arctic).
Lulled into a blissful state of wellbeing by all this beauty and good fortune, we toddled off to dinner the first few nights in a great state of expectation. But after extensive sampling, we have one, rather huge, problem:
The wine.
Oh, dear.
Now, I am not the fussiest of souls when it comes to vino. In actual fact, one could say I am remarkably easily pleased; as long as it is wet and alcoholic, I am generally happy. But, believe it or not, I have finally discovered that I actually do have standards. And, tragically – and I do not use that word lightly – I truly can’t drink the Portuguese red stuff. We are talking severely, monstrously terrible, here. Think petrol flavoured Ribena and you pretty much have a handle on it. We have tried; sweet Lord knows, we have tried. At least five different vino de la casa’s. But to no avail. It really is undrinkable. We notice that even the locals don’t order it; they all drink Spanish bottled stuff. So it isn’t just us.
(view of Portugal from Tui in Spain)
Meanwhile, the food is fine, and the servings are huge, although unlike in Spain, it is usually just the one course as averse to three. Not that it matters. I struggle to get through the one. I am holding out a tenuous, glimmer of hope that out on the coast where seafood is everywhere the wine might somehow do a dramatic lift…oh please…it’s going to be a long dry spell out there in the desert, we need to make the most of alcoholic civilisation while we still can!
All is well once more with our packs. The muscles have forgiven us for our long (and never, I swear, to be repeated) period of indolence, and we are back to walking normal distances after a bit of a slow start. It is still difficult to follow the waymarks sometimes. We go for days without any trouble, and then suddenly lose the way completely, and spend hours navigating by compass – not difficult, obviously, when one just has to go South, but pretty annoying. I have to confess that we are generally in the middle of some highly engrossing conversation when we discover we have lost it. You know, really important stuff, like what exactly it was that George said to Jerry in some ancient episode of Seinfeld. Obviously we are using this time on the trek to contemplate loads of high minded philosophical stuff.
So now we are nearly in Porto, where we are supposed to meeting some friends, although we are not too sure where or when at this stage, so we may or may not stop. In the meantime I plan on doing an in depth study of the alcohol situation, the results of which I shall obviously share. There has to be something drinkable around here somewhere. If not, at least we know what we can run the camping stove on…
February 11th, 2005
On the final run into Santiago, Gary and I had several earnest, heartfelt discussions relating to the coming re-packing of our bags, during which we would have to somehow incorporate our previously discarded camping gear whilst minimising the weight we carried. Determinedly we vowed to weigh our bags on entering Santiago, and not to gain one single kilo more than we had walked the camino with. No matter what sacrifices had to be made, what precious treasures left behind; under no circumstances, we swore and declared, would those packs gain a single gram.
Ah, yes.
What an utter load of codswallop.
For future reference: never should one ever pack a bag whilst warm, comfortable, rested, fed, and under the influence of any amount of alcohol. Oh, no. Packing one’s life into a bag is the kind of mission which should be undertaken in controlled circumstances; a good time, for example, might be after running a 40km marathon in 30 degree heat with the entire load on one’s back, and no beer in sight at the finish line. Perhaps in those kind of conditions, one would make decisions which displayed a semblance of intelligence.
As averse to those which demonstrate ample measures of sheer, pathetic, moronic stupidity.
You would think that after walking the distance we have, we would gain the ability to be brutal and utterly logical in regards to belongings.
Oh, I think not.
After performing what I considered to be an excellent pack cull, I added a couple of things to my pack. Not much, I thought. Half of the tent; the mess tins and cutlery; a new knife (admittedly slightly crocodile Dundee-ish in proportion; but hey, I reasoned, we’re heading for Africa); bedroll; and a couple of other odds and ends. I watched Gary’s evergrowing stash, meanwhile, with some trepidation, but he swore blind it was just packed differently and there was really no more weight than before.
I weighed my pack when I had finished, the night before we were due to leave – and this is where I really can’t believe my own idiocy – cheerfully said to Gary, “Oh, that should be no problem, it’s only about 5 kilos heavier than before. Still waaaay lighter than in France.”
Hello?
5 kilos?
Did I suddenly have a brain atrophy or something?
Off we merrily trotted the following morning, bright sunshine and all, bound for Portugal. I will add that at this point we’d also blithely planned to stroll a short 25km day. Nothing too difficult, you know; a good reasonable day to break us back in gently. Of course, we were aware that it might not be as easy going the opposite direction to Santiago, as all the waymarks point toward that city rather than away, but hey – we’re old hands at all of this now, aren’t we? How hard can it be? And the packs aren’t really MUCH heavier, not really, only a few kilos here and there. Nothing too serious.
Nothing too serious, BOLLOCKS.
The first five kilometres were okay. We didn’t seem to be going as fast as we were accustomed to, but we didn’t mind, there was no rush. The waymarks were a little difficult to follow; but we had expected that, too. Unfortunately, after we had walked about an hour without seeing any trace of them at all, and the compass seemed to be pointing due North as averse to the desired Southerly direction, we began to get a little concerned. This unsettling occurrence coincided with the sneaking suspicion that the alien on my back was actually not a pack but a strange, ever expanding, amorphous mass of concrete with a malevolent and destructive personality, and evil intent. As I meditated on this odd phenomenon, my feet began to wail in a particularly pitiful fashion, telling me in no uncertain terms that they were about to make my life sheer and unadulterated hell unless I unburdened them RIGHT NOW.
A short time later we saw a sign which informed us that we had successfully found our way through the new routing of the Portuguese Way. Unfortunately we had done so in the wrong direction.
It was around about then that our plans to reach the albergue 25 km away began to subside sadly into the dirt, and the 12km one to look not only appealing, but almost too far away. Oh, how the mighty are fallen.
Sometime around six o’clock we limped into the 12km albergue, my pack riding like a triumphant hippo on my broken back, feet screaming like Mariah Carey on cocaine, and any pride I had in utter tatters. Carefully I put the monster down and said, very quietly, “I’m sending a parcel off tomorrow.”
“HHHmmmmm,” said Gary. “How much do you think it’s going to cost to…”
He never got a chance to finish the sentence. Suddenly he was confronted with a mad, shrieking, rather heinously insane harridan. And my mother in law has already left.
And did I mention that knife…?
By the time I finished, we were both pleasantly clear on a couple of things. Firstly, that the five kilos I had gained in my pack were going. Immediately, and to hell west and crooked with the cost. And secondly, that the five kilos I had gained in my pack were going.
So, with a weary sense of deja vu, out came everything for yet another pack cull. Only this time, there was nothing left to cull. It was really hard.
In the end, it is things like the second set of thermals, extra socks, and journal, which have had to go. Things I use every day but which, possibly, I can manage without – especially now that (hopefully) we are out of the worst of the cold. There is just no way I can carry weight like that again. And it is hard to believe that five kilos can make that much of a difference.
Meanwhile, Gary’s pack is almost double the weight of mine; but he says he’s fine. Certainly, he doesn’t moan even a fraction as much as I do.
So we set out again. Chastened, again. Lighter packs, again. I’m sure we will learn. Eventually.
In the meantime, Gary has been a complete saint and taken the whole tent; he sent quite a bit back, but I still feel a complete girl’s blouse for not carrying my half. Unfortunately, I just can’t; so there it is.
It really isn’t easy following the Camino backwards. Every few miles there is a blue arrow to indicate the direction we are meant to go; but to be honest, they are so few and far between we are largely relying on the compass and roads now. We pick up the Way for stretches, but lose it just as frequently, and after having gone very wrong a couple of times scrupulously check the compass regularly now. We met a couple today who are walking the Way to Santiago, but who once walked it the way we are; they told us they also got lost on a daily basis, which made us feel slightly better. I’m sure we’ll get used to it.
The muscles are finding their way back to normal function again (oh, man, I still can’t believe how they made me pay for my little holiday) and my backpack is once more the benign little companion to which I am accustomed, as averse to the sinister extra terrestrial of our first day back. The weather has been utterly divine, day after day of blissful sunshine, and we are still in the land of pilgrim’s albergues, so the tent remains where all good tents should in the winter – packed. I can see it nudging at the straps though, just itching to have me back in it’s freezing little clutches. I am going to defy it for as long as humanly possible.
Thanks to the wonderful people at www.caminosantiago.com, we have been given all manner of information about accommodation on the route, for which we are eternally grateful. If you are at all interested in walking the camino, it is really worth looking at their forum, as the people on it are incredibly helpful and generous with their information. Thanks in particular to Giorgio from Italy, who took the time to send us a long and highly informative email about the Camino Portuguese. We may even get to the end of it one day. (The route, that is, not the email).
We are very close to Portugal now, despite pack and feet issues (which I am sure will improve dramatically after the pack cull). It was marvellous to have such a long and indulgent break, and to see our mothers – in my case, for the first time in three years due to our long stay in London. We are very grateful to both of them for driving the enormous distance to Santiago, and picking up all of our discarded belongings along the way!
And if I ever write anything again implying that we are cocky enough to think we have this pack thing sussed out, feel free to tell me to shove a sock in it.
Some days later…
And how quickly it all changes!
Suddenly we are back to normal, the trail seems to be much more clearly waymarked, and we are travelling at our old comfortable pace. Even better, the weather has been something out of a travel brochure, warm enough to walk in a t-shirt every day. We are just about to cross the border and not only does the food seem to get better every day, it also – and we thought this was not possible – seems to be getting cheaper! When you can get an entire three course meal with wine and coffee for five euros, you know it´s a country you´re going to like. The seafood is sizzling on barbeques as we go by; the people are smiling and friendly; and, most importantly, it is sunny here whilst the weather report tells us that the meseta and much of the camino frances is still getting snow dumped on it…this is a GOOD feeling. I realise that is horribly callous for any poor souls about to walk it, but man, it is soooo good to be in warm weather at last. We have had our share of cold and snow, and now it is good to think there is sunshine and seaside ahead. Cheers, and we will put some photos up next time.