Lord Longpath
New Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- Camino Frances (April/May 2015)
Chemin du Puy (April/May 2016)
North Wales Pilgrim (October 2017)
El Borracho
I'd already noticed him a few days earlier in the trail. He had a habit of passing the Albergue where we had decided to stop that day, or maybe stopping with a friend for a cold beer before going on further into the warm afternoon, but we'd see him again, a day to two later. I noticed him because he had a strikingly different style from most other pilgrims, at least from the neck up. Instead of the usual sensible broad-brimmed hat against the sun he wore what looked like a check tea-towel worn Arab style around his head. Combined with dark sunglasses, a swarthy complexion and several days of stubble he reminded me of the SAS soldiers behind enemy lines in Iraq in the BBC film version of Bravo Two Zero, except that he didn't have an enormous pack and was only lightly built.
We checked into the albergue at Alto do Poio. We'd decided to press on beyond O Cebreiro, so there weren't many places to choose from to stay up on this high green mountain. There was only one place in this tiny village, and it was filling up fast. The dormitory was crowded, only sixteen bunk beds but quite close together, and only two shower/toilets between us, so when the queue of pilgrims arrived in the afternoon we were all over each other trying to make our beds, unpack, shower, wash our socks, get to the toilets etc. When we'll all done what we had to do I could see 14 of the 16 beds were taken. We retired to the bar to pass time till the time for the evening meal but, as was often the case in the mountain villages, the bar was very cold with the mountain wind blowing straight through it. The only warm seat, by the stove, was firmly occupied by the proprietor's mother. So we went back to the dorm for a while to warm up.
When he walked into the dorm, I actually sympathised with him. He went to one of the two remaining empty bunks, the top bunk on my right. The older, Spanish woman on the bottom bunk was not pleased at this, and immediately warned him not to molestar her things. She'd spread all her things over the floor on both sides of the bunk. I couldn't see how he could even take his pack off and sit down without touching any of her things, never mind unpack and make his bed, and he'd just walked in tired and hungry from the mountain. She had probably been hoping to have the bunks to herself, and was slightly disappointed to find a hairy, sweaty man was going to be sleeping on top of her.
We went for our evening meal in the bar, leaving him to sort himself out, and get to know the lady in the bottom bunk.
When we returned, a few hours later, most of the others were going through the usual rituals, cleaning their teeth, getting their gear ready for the morning and settling into bed. The little anteroom before the dormitory, no doubt an overspill area on busy summer nights, was now occupied by a large dog, much to Rachel's disapproval, that was walking the camino with her mistress, an Italian pilgrim from our dormitory. Outside, the three Alsatians belonging to the proprietor circled the building. Beyond them, the village dogs roamed the night. Large dogs turned out to be a feature of rural Galicia.
When the time came for lights out, there was only one person missing. He must have carried on drinking with his companions from the bar. The bar had closed at lights out, but his companions had private rooms. We turned out the lights and hoped for the best. It was to be a memorable night.
I was woken some time around midnight not by our friend, who I could just about see was still missing, but by a commotion at the other end of the dorm. Someone, I never did see exactly what they looked like, was coughing violently and loudly, unable to stop or control themselves. When I say loud, I mean I was wearing earplugs against routine snoring but was blasted awake by the outburst. He was struggling to catch his breath, but managing to shout and swear in desperate sounding German, occasionally bellowing 'I'm sorry' in English. People around him were trying to calm him down, making helpful suggestions involving 'wasser' or 'agua'. At first I felt annoyed (I like my sleep) but then realised that wasn't a very noble feeling. The man plainly couldn't help it and was in some distress. The disturbance continued for what seemed a very long time but I'm told was about 45 minutes. Even when things quietened down I couldn't get straight to sleep, fully expecting it to start again.
I went back to sleep. About an hour later I was awoken again, but more subtly. To my left, someone was snoring in French, but otherwise it was silent. I had become aware that Rachel, in the bunk above me, had become agitated, and the light from her little torch was flickering around the room. I opened my eyes and could make out the figure of a man standing and waving his arms about. It was the missing pilgrim. At first I thought he must be sleep-walking, or mentally ill. I watched him for a while. He was silent, but reaching out with his arms and very unsteady on his feet. He was drunk. He must have had very poor night vision, I could see him by the dull glow of the emergency lights but he clearly could not see what was in front of him. He was feeling his way around, trying to find his bed but having forgotten where it was.
He found the door of one of the toilets, went inside and didn't reappear for a while. I had almost dozed off again when he reappeared, this time minus his trousers. He continued the search for his bed. Unable to find his own, he tried some other people's. By this time everyone was awake. Eventually he found the one bed that was empty, but this was not actually his bed, where his sleeping bag was. He climbed the ladder to the top bunk, lay down, fell asleep, and immediately started snoring.
I dozed off again. I was awoken by a crash. He had got cold in the night, remembered he had a sleeping bag somewhere else and decided to go in search of it. He had not remembered he was on a top bunk. The Brazilian man in the bottom was dimly awoken by an unexpected scrabbling around in the bunk above him, which should have been empty, and opened his eyes only to see a body tumbling past him to the floor. Being light, young and drunk, after a moment the body arose, unharmed but very bewildered.
Rachel kindly intervened at this point, shining her little torch on his real bunk, with its welcoming sleeping bag. The drunk looked delighted, climbed the ladder, holding on tight this time, and surprisingly managed to find the right end of his sleeping bag. He got into it, promptly fell asleep and immediately started snoring again.
When the time came to leave in the morning, everyone else in the dorm, except him, had already left. We were often the last ones out. It was only about 8am, but that was the time you were supposed to leave by, to give the hospitaleros time to clean, ready for the next batch of pilgrims who would start to arrive about lunch time. He was still sound asleep, dead to the world. He wasn't actually dead - I could still hear him snoring.
They say you see the real person when someone is drunk. If that's true, he wasn't at all a bad person. He was never loud, or aggressive. Only confused. Very, very confused. We expected he would pass us sometime, but we never did see him again.
I'd already noticed him a few days earlier in the trail. He had a habit of passing the Albergue where we had decided to stop that day, or maybe stopping with a friend for a cold beer before going on further into the warm afternoon, but we'd see him again, a day to two later. I noticed him because he had a strikingly different style from most other pilgrims, at least from the neck up. Instead of the usual sensible broad-brimmed hat against the sun he wore what looked like a check tea-towel worn Arab style around his head. Combined with dark sunglasses, a swarthy complexion and several days of stubble he reminded me of the SAS soldiers behind enemy lines in Iraq in the BBC film version of Bravo Two Zero, except that he didn't have an enormous pack and was only lightly built.
We checked into the albergue at Alto do Poio. We'd decided to press on beyond O Cebreiro, so there weren't many places to choose from to stay up on this high green mountain. There was only one place in this tiny village, and it was filling up fast. The dormitory was crowded, only sixteen bunk beds but quite close together, and only two shower/toilets between us, so when the queue of pilgrims arrived in the afternoon we were all over each other trying to make our beds, unpack, shower, wash our socks, get to the toilets etc. When we'll all done what we had to do I could see 14 of the 16 beds were taken. We retired to the bar to pass time till the time for the evening meal but, as was often the case in the mountain villages, the bar was very cold with the mountain wind blowing straight through it. The only warm seat, by the stove, was firmly occupied by the proprietor's mother. So we went back to the dorm for a while to warm up.
When he walked into the dorm, I actually sympathised with him. He went to one of the two remaining empty bunks, the top bunk on my right. The older, Spanish woman on the bottom bunk was not pleased at this, and immediately warned him not to molestar her things. She'd spread all her things over the floor on both sides of the bunk. I couldn't see how he could even take his pack off and sit down without touching any of her things, never mind unpack and make his bed, and he'd just walked in tired and hungry from the mountain. She had probably been hoping to have the bunks to herself, and was slightly disappointed to find a hairy, sweaty man was going to be sleeping on top of her.
We went for our evening meal in the bar, leaving him to sort himself out, and get to know the lady in the bottom bunk.
When we returned, a few hours later, most of the others were going through the usual rituals, cleaning their teeth, getting their gear ready for the morning and settling into bed. The little anteroom before the dormitory, no doubt an overspill area on busy summer nights, was now occupied by a large dog, much to Rachel's disapproval, that was walking the camino with her mistress, an Italian pilgrim from our dormitory. Outside, the three Alsatians belonging to the proprietor circled the building. Beyond them, the village dogs roamed the night. Large dogs turned out to be a feature of rural Galicia.
When the time came for lights out, there was only one person missing. He must have carried on drinking with his companions from the bar. The bar had closed at lights out, but his companions had private rooms. We turned out the lights and hoped for the best. It was to be a memorable night.
I was woken some time around midnight not by our friend, who I could just about see was still missing, but by a commotion at the other end of the dorm. Someone, I never did see exactly what they looked like, was coughing violently and loudly, unable to stop or control themselves. When I say loud, I mean I was wearing earplugs against routine snoring but was blasted awake by the outburst. He was struggling to catch his breath, but managing to shout and swear in desperate sounding German, occasionally bellowing 'I'm sorry' in English. People around him were trying to calm him down, making helpful suggestions involving 'wasser' or 'agua'. At first I felt annoyed (I like my sleep) but then realised that wasn't a very noble feeling. The man plainly couldn't help it and was in some distress. The disturbance continued for what seemed a very long time but I'm told was about 45 minutes. Even when things quietened down I couldn't get straight to sleep, fully expecting it to start again.
I went back to sleep. About an hour later I was awoken again, but more subtly. To my left, someone was snoring in French, but otherwise it was silent. I had become aware that Rachel, in the bunk above me, had become agitated, and the light from her little torch was flickering around the room. I opened my eyes and could make out the figure of a man standing and waving his arms about. It was the missing pilgrim. At first I thought he must be sleep-walking, or mentally ill. I watched him for a while. He was silent, but reaching out with his arms and very unsteady on his feet. He was drunk. He must have had very poor night vision, I could see him by the dull glow of the emergency lights but he clearly could not see what was in front of him. He was feeling his way around, trying to find his bed but having forgotten where it was.
He found the door of one of the toilets, went inside and didn't reappear for a while. I had almost dozed off again when he reappeared, this time minus his trousers. He continued the search for his bed. Unable to find his own, he tried some other people's. By this time everyone was awake. Eventually he found the one bed that was empty, but this was not actually his bed, where his sleeping bag was. He climbed the ladder to the top bunk, lay down, fell asleep, and immediately started snoring.
I dozed off again. I was awoken by a crash. He had got cold in the night, remembered he had a sleeping bag somewhere else and decided to go in search of it. He had not remembered he was on a top bunk. The Brazilian man in the bottom was dimly awoken by an unexpected scrabbling around in the bunk above him, which should have been empty, and opened his eyes only to see a body tumbling past him to the floor. Being light, young and drunk, after a moment the body arose, unharmed but very bewildered.
Rachel kindly intervened at this point, shining her little torch on his real bunk, with its welcoming sleeping bag. The drunk looked delighted, climbed the ladder, holding on tight this time, and surprisingly managed to find the right end of his sleeping bag. He got into it, promptly fell asleep and immediately started snoring again.
When the time came to leave in the morning, everyone else in the dorm, except him, had already left. We were often the last ones out. It was only about 8am, but that was the time you were supposed to leave by, to give the hospitaleros time to clean, ready for the next batch of pilgrims who would start to arrive about lunch time. He was still sound asleep, dead to the world. He wasn't actually dead - I could still hear him snoring.
They say you see the real person when someone is drunk. If that's true, he wasn't at all a bad person. He was never loud, or aggressive. Only confused. Very, very confused. We expected he would pass us sometime, but we never did see him again.
