Thanks Bac and Una.
I'm in the albergue of Tamel and what a place it is! AND with internet! I want to tell you that in my young day we had to use carrier pigeons, none of your luxury internet. And it was hard to find string to tie the message to the struggling bird's leg.
I'll say a few things of this Caminho................
In Vilarinho, (4beds) two young women from Latvia arrived late, on the tough first stage of the walk here, being city\town roads all the way. They wore high fashionboots, clothes to match and crap rucsacs. I thought they'd have problems, but I saw their names in Barcelos pilgrim book, and they didnt stop here in Tamel, so theyre going strong! So much for my hesitation. Bom Caminho. I reflected though, that the Bombeiros will love them to bits :|
In Rates there were four Christian......well, I'll carefully call them "enthusiasts", coming from Finland, to inflict Christian Pentecostal leaflets on the innocent Portugese in their homes - all the way to SDC. As a bonus, they enjoyed loud conversations and noisy packing (familiar?) in the early morning when others who had walked there tried to sleep. I forgot to say they came by car +trailer with bicis. They did not take part in the wonderful welcome offered unexpectedly by the hosp.,his wife and friends. It was some kind of chestnut feast and all were invited to the table for eats, drinks and laughs in this lovely albergue of Rates. Two of the friends were such nice women, doing hospitalera training. I will find my notes with their names later.
Next night in Barcelos albergue, I and the only other pilgrim were joined at 22.00 by a clearly disturbed pilgrim (if he was a pilg ). He wandered around nearly naked for a couple of hours in a cold albergue, then stretched out uncovered. I was under three blankets. In the half light of dawn, through one open eye, I watched him as he tried to exit the room via the ceiling, some of whose ceiling panels he had removed. I called out "No tocar!" (yes I know that's Spanish!
)and I'm glad to say he stopped! In the morning, we fed him on what we had, which gave him the energy to do scores of frantic, rapid pressups - this guy was fit! Then, producing a football from his pack, he went to the yard and did lots of footballish things at a fast rate. There was a steady drizzle out there, which soaked my drying stuff from the night before. :shock: Oh yes, this guy then asked for a cigarette and a euro. Unlucky in this, he went out and begged some bread at the paderia, and was good enough to offer it round.
Such unexpected events! what will the next alb. hold? :shock: :wink: Life's rich tapestry innit?
So then I'm off in the slanting, soaking rain, over the bridge and away. I forgot to say that in Barcelos, the Bombeiros have shifted to the medieval bridge and the Alb. is the Casa Cultura 50 metres away. The Bombeiros and the Casa are a few metres to the left just before the med. bridge....Then I squelch past the square where last night a group of locals danced under the stars to an accordeon. I pass the offices of the Communist Party of Portugal and reflect that for them the tide has ebbed, leaving the way clear for a flood of ruthless capitalism whose greatest exponent is now on a crusade of murder and mayhem across the planet. The rain hammers down and I see myself in a shop window, with the familiar rucsac hump under the poncho. The Hunchback of Notre Dame can't beat a pilgrim hump. I also see my face reflected and I dont like what I see :shock: It's an old guy (what?, me, old?) looking back - where is that Paul Newmanesque face of yesterday? OK I exaggerate the Newman bit - but this age business - well I dont like it. :shock: Am I the young guy who enjoyed The Who singing "I hope I die before I get old" - no thanks. :roll:
I meet a Portugese guy and we talk in French - he has stopped work because of "
head problems". Hey! it's as common as a cold nowadays. We wish each other "no crappy job" and drink to that. I stagger out onto the sodden caminho, cursing those charming, but wobbly underfoot, Portugese cobblestones. Eucalyptus forests conspire to drip on me. And they do. How do te know I'm here? This is not hubris, but wonder. Why don't they drip on all the Portugese builders who dump rubble in every woodland clearing?
Then splashingly on past a stone cross which miraculously appeared in 1843 - isn't that amazing? :wink: I immediately experience an epiphany, in the rain.
I find an orange tree; I select some and with a twisting motion capture those fortunate fruits. I eat two and take three for breakfast. The rain stops -again: I remove my poncho -again. It rains again and it's poncho time again. It's good to whinge. :wink:
As I wait for the Tamel alb to open, three dogs arrive to sneak up and menace me (I dont like groups of dogs). I shake my stick and they all bugger off. I must confess here, that as much as I like a well-cared for dog, I detest these brutes which are so nasty behind fences and walls. I like to rattle my stick there and drive them into a slobbering, snarling, sharp toothed frenzy. This ensures that their careless owners get a bit of disturbance too.
Anyway, I'm soaked to the boots....
Like Schwarzenegger..."I'll be back"!