Sunrises to Santiago: Searching for Purpose on the Camino de Santiago (20 page)

He laughs and replies, “I am
good friends with the owner. He wasn
’
t
lying when he told you it was fresh. He takes his fishing pole down
to the river every morning and catches a few trout for the
restaurant. If he doesn
’
t
sell them, he eats the fish himself.”

We are all sipping more hot
proper British tea with milk. “Why is that funny, though?” I ask.

“
Because it is illegal! So
don
’
t
tell anyone,” he motions an imaginary key locking his lips sealed.
“The Spanish government is worried about the dwindling numbers of
fish in the streams here in Galicia. You
’
re
supposed to have a license, and there is a limit. Let
’
s
just say my friend is neither an environmentalist nor someone who
really pays much attention to the law. Things run a little
differently here in Spain. Something I am slowly getting used to.”

After
a great night getting to know Matt and Melinda, we head downstairs
for bed. Amy writes in the Camino journal:
It was kind of hard to
jump ahead of everyone and be surrounded by new and unfamiliar faces
but I’m so happy we are taking a more relaxed approach to the last
10 days.

Tomorrow,
we climb a giant Galician mountain, which will be a challenge I hope
my body can take. One thing is for sure, I know the views will be
spectacular. Lying on the bottom bunk after lights out, I mull over
the meanings of life we discussed today. I try to mold them into
something almost tangible, tiny thoughts I can hold in my hand and
stow away for later. In our barely populated room, sleep comes
quickly tonight. Much needed rest comes as we get ready for another
day on the trail.

Trail
Days 22—23

It
is a cool, crisp morning, and as the sun rises, slowly revealing the
landscape, I can tell we are in for a gorgeous hike. Lush green
mountains and valleys filled with puffy damp morning clouds surround
us. The clean, cool air fills my lungs with energizing oxygen.

“
My
body feels pretty good today,” I say while examining my heel. The
swelling has almost completely gone away.

“
Knock
on wood,” Amy replies. I can tell she is happy with the news.
“Let
’
s see how you
feel when we get up there,” she says pointing to the top of a giant
green mountain.

We
begin a fairly steep climb on a heavily wooded trail and begin to
snake our way through a dense forest. This is the first true test for
my rested legs. I begin to put weight on my left knee to see if it
will hold. So far, so good. My body struggles to trust my brain as it
fights my attempts to walk normally.

As
we continue to climb, completely alone, I hear a loud bark form
somewhere up ahead. The animal seems to be getting closer and closer.
All of a sudden, a giant German Shepard with a spiked collar and no
owner emerges from the woods. The dog slowly approaches us on the
trail. He looks angry, bearing his gnarled teeth, and immediately, my
nerves are completely on edge. He is growling, barking, and will
literally not let us pass him on the trail. I try to think of a
solution. I have some nuts in my pack, which might appease the dog
and make him like us.

I
whisper to Amy, “What should we do? Should I hit him with Dolores?”

Amy
quickly whispers back, “No, you idiot! That will make him angrier!
Don
’
t make eye contact,
and we will walk forward slowly.”

We
move ahead
at a snail
’
s
pace
,
tensely, as the dog continues with us for what seems like miles. My
heart rate has accelerated as I mentally wish the dog away. He
continues to walk ahead of us turning to observe these two scared
humans every few minutes.

I
wonder if he is the reincarnation of one of the Christian knights who
would sometimes escort pilgrims through the most dangerous parts of
these woods. Charged with guarding them from the Moors whom they were
battling for religious control of Spain.
¹
The dog has now seemed to adopt us and walks ahead, scanning the
thick dark woods for would be attackers. My nerves calm a little. He
no longer growls at us but only at the ghosts hidden behind fallen
logs, bushes, and tree trunks.

Finally,
as if called by an imaginary owner, the dog leaves us alone, and a
wave of relief washes over us both. We continue through the forest
until we are above the trees and clouds. It is now just us, a giant
blue sky, and amazing views of the green mountains of Galicia all
around.

We
make it to a small village, O
’
Cebreiro,
at the top of the mountain and stop for some lunch. This village is
dotted with Celtic looking buildings made of dark gray stones topped
with roofs of tightly woven straw. The famous dish of this region is
pulpo,
octopus,
normally served with some smoked Spanish paprika, salt, and drenched
in olive oil. We order a large wooden plate full of
pulpo
and
wash it down with two
claras
con limon,
or drinks made by mixing beer and lemon soda
.
The
octopus is good but not my favorite as it takes on the feeling of
chewing on a rubber tire after a while. I feel slightly nauseous
after such a strange meal.

It
is here in O
’
Cebriero
where Don Elias Vali
ñ
a
Sampedro, the local parish priest who died in 1989, came up with the
idea to mark the Camino de Santiago with the now iconic yellow
arrows. They are the modern day guide that marks the many routes to
Santiago.
²

This
is a popular stop for pilgrims after such a steep climb, and upon
seeing the line outside of the albergue, we decide to continue on. We
slowly walk through the rare Galician sunshine away from town,
enjoying the views and the peculiar signature buildings of this
region. The landscape is dotted with cattle and goats. Scots pine mix
with oak and birch trees as far as the eye can see, only interrupted
by squares of farmland cut out of the forest.

By
three o’clock in the afternoon, we make it to the tiny village of
Hospital de la Condesa and check into the Albergue Xunta. A Xunta is
a government-run albergue, and this one has about 20 bunk beds in a
large cold room. The building is in the middle of several pastures
and connected farms. I do my laundry in the sink outside accompanied
by
a
curious
chicken
.

It
is colder here in Galicia, and since we threw Amy
’
s
sleeping bag in the trash in León to get rid of the bed bugs, I
offer Amy my sleeping bag for the night. I simply lie on the bottom
bunk wrapped in my rain jacket, still wearing my hiking clothes. When
I wake up, I am a little confused. It felt like a nap, and I am
already dressed. We unceremoniously head out the front door and start
walking.

“
I
can see my breath!
”
I
yell ahead to Amy. Unsurprisingly, she doesn
’
t
reply. I can barely hear myself as the raindrops constantly fall on
the hood of my rain jacket, drowning out all other noise.

It
is about 7 a.m., and the day has begun with heavy rain and thick fog.
The light from our headlamps is filled with thousands of tiny
raindrops speeding towards the ground. Even with our rain gear, we
are soaked before breakfast. This combined with a steep climb over a
trail covered with slick muddy rocks makes for a challenging early
morning. We stop at the first bar we see and are greeted by a roaring
fire and a kind smile from an elderly lady who treats us as if we are
family. I look around the cozy room and on the wall see her picture
in dozens of newspaper articles about the Camino de Santiago. We must
have stumbled upon a gem.

I
hang my wet rain jacket next to the fire and head up to the bar. We
order thick toast with butter and spread rich dark brown
local
honey over the bread. The honey still has bits of pollen in it and
has a strong
smokey flavor.
The
kind woman offers a smile and tells me in Spanish,
“
The
flavor comes from the bees who love the chestnut trees in this
forest.
”

White
steam is rising from our rain jackets as the crackling fire warms our
bones. The hot coffee warms our souls. It is hard to head back out
into the rain, so we spend more time than usual savoring our
breakfast. “Would be a good day to stay inside and watch movies,”
Amy says, thinking out loud.

“
That
sounds amazing!” I reply, sitting next to the fire.

Reluctantly,
we continue on.
The rain slowly lets up, and after a few hours, we pass through a
small Galician farm town. Out of nowhere, a woman appears from inside
of a stone farmhouse, carrying a piping hot plate filled with fresh
crepes. We take two, and she shakes some sugar on top. I ask how much
and she tells us donation only. We fork over a few euros, she asks us
where we are from, and after a few minutes we continue on our way.
“
Buen
Camino, peregrinos!
”
she yells after us.

“
Muchísimas
gracias, Se
ñ
ora!
”
I
yell back and wave.

I
smile at Amy. I have never been so happy walking in the rain. We
continue on through lush green forests and clouds until the sun
finally starts to peek through and the thick fog starts to clear. We
can finally see our surroundings. The Galician weather is almost
teasing us, revealing the landscapes as if for only us to see, then
covering them up again with another puff of cloud.

Today
is turning out to be a good food day. We have been enjoying each
region
’
s style of food
as we have made our way through northern Spain over the past few
weeks, and today Galicia is making an argument for my favorite.
Through the Basque region, in the beginning of our trek, it was
pinxos.
Here in Galicia, the warm hearty food seems to be
designed for the weather.

We
stop just before Triacastela and scarf down some delicious warm
Galician
stew
,
caldo
gallego
,
made of white beans, greens, broth, and potatoes. We follow that with
café con leche and
Tarta
de
Santiago
,
the famous
almond
cake of Santiago. These little
cakes
are all topped with a powdered sugar imprint of the cross of
St.
James and the Galician recipe dates back to the Middle Ages. We scarf
down the history forkful by forkful before heading out the door.

After
another hour or so, we come upon a thick raspberry patch with a table
and small containers full of raspberries next to it. A box with a
sign that reads,
Frambuesas
1
Euro
is
sitting on the ta
ble
next to the containers. A trusting store with no one to make sure you
pay!
Keeping
karma on our side,
I
pop the money in the box and enjoy the juicy berries as we continue
on.