Day Three: 05/07/2010 Campillo to beyond Ricobayo de Alba
On ascending the dirt road above the Embalse, heading out for only a few minutes with my soul full of the colours of dawn and consoled by moving tides of water, a dusty beat-up car pulled over and a couple of locals jumped out, frantic and gesticulating. They insisted that I was going in the wrong direction and that I retrace my steps back to the church in Campillo. Apparently I was going in the wrong direction and if I continued would never in a life time make it to Muelas del Pan let alone Santiago. I retraced my steps and 20 minutes later arrived back at the Iglesia de San Pedro. Sure enough, on the reverse side of each power pole leading down to the village there could be found a yellow arrow. The bar was closed, people were sleeping, and the only water fountain that I could find had slashed across it in violent red ´aqua no portable´. So, I left the pueblo with only a litre of water, unperturbed because Muelas del Pan, according to my booklet was less than 10 kms away, about 1 1/2 hours. Signing out of the pueblo was easy to follow and before long I was ascending a gravel road, wowed by spectacular views of inlets and coves, green vegetation and azure water. Before I knew it I was back in that other world, the dream space of happy peregrinas, chasing emotions and imaginations, lulled by the rhythmic pace of my own feet....until...hey! How did I find myself here? The road had swung in a loop, and at the top of a long rise on a prominent rock, there, in the rising heat and scorching rays, was an arrow pointing me back to where I had just come. Confusion. So I headed left and not long later, an hour after setting out, I was back at the village, sweating and in despair, convinced I´d never escape Campillo. By now several ladies were up and out. So we chatted a while, and whilst I was not able to obtain coffee or anything to eat, they did lead me back to water -the very fountain I´d passed by earlier, the one sloshed in red paint. Apparently only the trough water was undrinkable. A tiny faucet on the side of the tank gave good water and the village people were already gathering to collect it.
Heading off for the third time this day, past the stone plinth and yellow markers, I retraced my steps up and beyond to the beautiful vista and there on my left, painted at an obscure angle and not visible in the early light, were faded flaked-off arrows indicating a descent right...........I did eventually make it to Muelas del Pan but hours later because, not long after this turn, once again I hared off in the wrong direction. Reverse arrows guided me back after and endless time and I finally climbed in the blistering heat up, out and over to the scrub land and rocks beyond.
At the ayuntamiento in Muelas del Pan I was unable to acquire a sello; computers had been installed for internet access but as yet were not functioning. The local grocer kindly gave me vegetables when I purchased supplies, and then it was time to head off to the pub, for cafe con leche and tapas and a chance to boot up my depleted camera battery. Locals suggested that I walk another 3 kms and swim at the Playo, a lake side recreation spot by the village of Ricobayo de Alba. And this I did, awed by the impressive bridge spanning the Embalse as I crossed the dam to the next village. Three hours later, after a siesta and much swimming, fed by gitanos in exchange for a song I headed off in search of a good camping spot.
Day Four: 06/07/2010 after Ricobayo de Alba to somewhere before Alcanices
There are two possibilities when hiking from Ricobayo de Alba to Ceadea. One is scenic in view of the Embalse, passing through Villaflor to Castillo de Alba, the other follows droving caminos and tracks through fields from the pueblo of Cerezal de Aliste. The tourist officer in Zamora and others had recommended I take the Villaflor route and that was my intention. However, signing after Ricobayo de Alba, whilst beginning with a stone plinth, gave no indication of a choice and by the time I camped out last night I had no idea which village I was heading for. For hours, the yellow arrows had ceased and I found myself following green and white balises. When a yellow arrow eventually did appear the junctions which followed gave no indication of whether to turn left or right. I chose left a couple of times and after a very long, exhausting ascent finally found an obscured, faded arrow. Here I pitched my tent on stones and thorns, content that, at least for now, I was somewhere.
All night the wind blew and by morning I was wearing my merino hoodie. It turned out, after another hour´s pretty walk, that I was not on the scenic route to Villaflor after all. In the early dawn yellow arrows appeared and stone plinths to Cerezal de Aliste were found toppled. Plastic ribbons had been tied to trees and I was accompanied by a legion of midges, flies and biters. The trail beyond Cerezal was lovely, indeed, reminiscent of the English Downs, but the longer I walked the less I noticed because by that time I was starving, hanging out for a coffee, craving plates of donuts and madelenas and cookies. Bermillo de Alba drifted by, and then I was at Fonfria, a happy, friendly place with all facilities open. Filling my sombrero with cool, cool water, I immersed my frying head in all it´s chilling glory, jolting alive as riverlets coursed down my spine. Water, water, water, water....I ate as much food as my stomach could handle in the heat, purchased enough to get me through the evening and next day, collected a sello from the cheerful secretary in the ayuntamiento then climbed back up to the drover´s camino.
Hour after hour I followed this parching camino, past expansive views to the right, by giant rock formations, through endless fields of wheat and occassional shade. Fornillos de Aliste never appeared as expected but Ceadea certainly did and finally the pueblo of Arcillera was in sight. There is a lovely shaded area with rose bushes and plane trees in front of the little church so I stopped a while then headed off. A farming lady chatted with me and gave advice: after the stand of pine trees I was to turn sharp left, then up and over the motorway to Vivinera. As i left the village, there on the ground a stack of carved granite camino plinths lay waiting for placement. Uncertain after the stand of pines where exactly I was supposeed to turn left, in the end I kept going straight ahead, thinking that I had seen yellow paint on an old fence post. An hour later I gave up. I camped in a grove of crimson foxgloves amidst misty fairy-lightgrasses and rustling weat and all night I heard the cackle of nesting birds and felt the movement of something live beneath my ground sheet.
Day Five: 07/07/2010 beyond Arcillera to Trabazos
A new day. Clear skies. Hopefully a better frame of mind and please, please, please somwhere to wash my hair and my clothes. I stink. Last night something made it´s home under my tent and I went to sleep with visions of snakes, lizards and mice. Grasshoppers bounced across the synthetic material overhead and I could see the outline of something live within inches of my face.
a camping peregrina´s dilemmas:
*how to wash in one capful of water
*how to remove spec 50 sunscreen without peeling the skin of one´s face, without resorting to carbolic soap or paint stripper.
*if I leave my stinking boots and pack outside the tent will someone out there, something from the misty craven beyond run off with my gear?
At every turn today when I needed help there was someone there to guide me. Walking in the cool hours of dawn I set off, continuing down the dirt track, the early sun silver on wheat and birds calling. I could see a sizeable village to my left by the motorway and, thinking that it was Vivinera, I eventually turned right, expecting to arrive at Alcanices 2-3 kms later. But over the rise, instead of Alcanices stretching out before me was an unpeopled expanse. I must have missed the arrows yesterday evening after Arcillera and walked much farther than thought. Not to worry. I turned arround, found the turnoff point again and there, thankfully was an elderly gent out for his early morning stroll. The village in the distance turned out to be Alcanices, not Vivinera and it was only another 2 kms by road.
The last of the summer flowers still adorn the roads and caminos and all day I gathered huge bunches lavender, lilac daisies and yellow St John´s flowers, giving them to the first person I encountered in each village, striking up interesting conversations along the way, drinking cups of coffee and amusing myself as best I could in the overpowering heat. In Trabazos someone suggested I rest a while in their albergue, a large room with hot shower, kitchenette, refrigeration unit and TV. Heaven! I intended staying only till 6 pm but once I had showered, washed clothes and rested up I couldn´t see the point in continuing. The kind hospitalero had pumped up an air bed for me, had shown me how to operate the coffee maker and even ran home to fetch milk. He turned on the bottle cooler to reduce the temperature in the room, then left me to it. God Bless Trabazos. When I offered a donation he declined it, saying everything was free. So I ran about later cleaning everything in sight, to say thank you. What immense generosity and kindness the people of Spain, the people in villages like Trabazos are demonstrating to the world.
Day Six: 08/07/2010 Trabazos to Braganca
My intention as I set out this morning was to hike over the border to Portugal and camp out 10 to 15 kms after Quintanila. I hoped to acquire a map and Camino booklet from the first Portuguese Ayuntamiento or tourist office along the way, but this wasn´t to be.
Leaving Trabazos my tourist booklet suggested that San Martin de Pederoso was a mere 5 kms away. I expected to be there within an hour but found myself lead along caminos, across country and eventually down to a new motorway. It took me at least two hours. At one point, yellow arrows on a concrete drain pointed me off the dirt camino down through waist-high grass and along various water ruts. The grass was without impression from previous peregrinos. I could hear the motorway in the distance and see a farm track far ahead. So, heading off I trusted that traversing this farming land was indeed what I was supposed to do and after a while, underneath the weaving grass I detected old truck marks and followed these until I reached the motorway. Then I followed the motorway signs all the way to San Martin and over the border bridge. No sello was available from the border police on the other side, in fact I didn´t acquire one until fourteen hours later, when I arrived soaked to the skin and shaking with fatique at the Braganca Albergue Jovenes.
Just beyond the border bridge the path leads down to a beautiful river with rock pools surrounded by reeds and water plants and tall trees. The river has been dammed to calm the flow and at a waterfall men and boys were catching langostinis/crawlies in buckets. It was only 10 am and sweltering hot so I ditched most of my clothing and sank gratefully into the water. Hundreds of little fish kissed me all over and I floated until all the heat frizzled out of my head.
There is an albergue in the next village, Quintanila and how I wish, in retrospect, that I had had the sense to make it´s use. Not knowing what was ahead, and still not having a Portuguese Camino guide I thought that sleeping out was my only option. It seemed too early in the day to stop at Quintanila, even though it was a delightful place. Colourful flowers adorn the houses, old Compostella symbols are engraved above doorways, and I could have had another swim in a huge trough under the local fountain -well, that´s what the old men suggested I do, but instead I blindly stuck my head under the tap, drenched my clothing and once again headed off into the furnace.
Surprised to discover several more villages along this route, I planned on sleeping after Palacios. After a siesta and several hours walking along overgrown riverside trails I wondered into Palacios. Several beautiful elderly ladies and a man were sitting beneath a large tree peeling vegetables and chatting. The old man raced off and came back with an apple and an orange which he kindly gave to me. So in exchange for a song, I happily ate his offering. Apparently all the young people have left Palacios for the cities and they and a few others are all that remain.
Setting off again, a violent electric storm suddenly brewed and within minutes I was being pelted furiously from above. To pitch a tent in this weather was impossible so, walking as fast as I could, ploughing through torrents, I tried to gain refuge in Gimonde but found none. In the end I dragged my aching, weary self, my now blistered feet all the way to Braganca in the hope that there I would find somewhere to sleep.
I hope never to do this kind of walking again. 14 hours in the heat then fighting off rain is just too much. Had I the energy, I would have wept. Not knowing where to find shelter in Braganca I limped beyond the Castle down to the old square. There, inside a church I approached a group of serious men and one of them, amazingly, offered to drive me to the local Albergue Jovenes. And that´s where I have been holed up, too exhausted for the past two days to do much more that tap out emails and read a novel.