gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
He approached from behind and could see I was making hard work of it. In the hot afternoon I was plodding steadily upwards, towards the hilltop town of Santarem.
At Santarem the pilgrimage route to Fatima deviates out to the left, away from the Camino Portuguese I've been on since Lisbon.
I'd be stopping in Santarem the night, then continuing on the Portuguese, back down into the Tejo river valley again, then ever onward toward distant Porto.
“I count my steps up to 100,” he said. “Then stop for a rest. Then another 100, then another rest….and so on, until I get to the top.”
“All very well for you mate,” I replied, having come to a similar conclusion about plodding uphill, “but I can only count to 50.”
That was our first verbal encounter.
A little further on and we came across a rest area. Set high into the hillside was what appeared to be an large old monument. A series of oblong, concrete drinking troughs for horses were spread in line across a high, concreted cliff face. Built for parties of travelers on horseback I guess. A few spouts had been added to cater for the riders, and for foot travelers who were maybe even pilgrims like us.
After satiating our thirst we introduced ourselves.
“Canadian,” he said.
“Kiwi, but I live in OZ....and I don't know if I want to walk with a Canadian again. Last lot I walked with were very rude to me.”
“You probably deserved it,” he said.
“I did,” I had to agree, “made a right Charlie of myself in public. Having a laugh at my expense was ok, I deserved that, but those guys continually rubbed my nose in it, wouldn't leave it alone. No excuse for that. Uncivilized behavior. That's what it was.”
We refilled our water bottles then perched on the side of the horse troughs. Off came my boots and socks. I spun and plunged my legs down into the luxuriously cold water. My feet swirled about in the deep.
“You trying to kill the horses?” he asked. "Obviously you Kiwis don't know how to behave yourselves when out and about in the world. Comes from living on a few scattered rocks at the bottom of the South Pacific Ocean. Too isolated. Not socially integrated with the rest of humanity. I mean the next stop is Antarctica! And you're closest neighbours are the Aussies. That's gotta tell you something!”
“Our ancestors did their best to get as far away as possible from the likes of your lot cobber. Just a joy ride in a dingy across the Atlantic for them. Soft, that's what they were. And anyway who wants like to live up to their ears in snow all year round.
Talk about Climate change....I bet you lot are all at church on Sundays praying for it. Gotta have rocks for brains to live there, that's what I reckon.”
He was walking out to Fatima.
Not me.
So next morning I made sure to catch up, for a farewell over breakfast.
We were staying at the fine Santarem hostel where a variety of room types and dorms are available, and which is so well managed and maintained by Mario, our fellow forum member. You need to call in and say hello to him. Good bloke he is. Very helpful to pilgrims.
“For a Kiwi, you're not such a bad sort really,” said my Canadian friend as we sat at the breakfast table, ”and you'd be most welcome to come stay if you ever happen to visit Canada. In fact I could do with a hand at work now and then, so you could stay a while if you'd like.”
“Likewise if you ever get to OZ,” I replied, "and I'll keep your invite in mind. But give you a hand? What would that entail? What do you do for a crust?”
“Pest eradication and removal,” he said, “but my specialization is in bear removal.”
“Don't know about that,” I replied doubtfully, “don't know if I'd be of much help there.”
“Nothing to worry about,” he said, “I'll tell you how it goes down.
Now where I live we have somewhat of a bear problem. They come roaming into town from the surrounding forests looking for food. People try to chase them away but they often then just climb up on the roof of the house. It's what bears do to escape, they climb.
That's when they call me.
I roll up in my big van. Its got a cage in back. My gear consists of a ladder, a baseball bat and a shotgun. As there are bears involved I also take my dog. He's a mean old Pitbull.
First thing I do is put the ladder against the house. Then I climb up and proceed to knock the bear off the roof with the baseball bat.
The Pitbull rushes in immediately and grabs the bear by its, you know, its private parts.
“By the goulies?” I exclaimed, consumed by that horror that appears innate to all males.
“That's it!” he said. “That subdues the bear to such an extent that I am able to safely get it into the cage in back of the van.”
He then proceeded to explain what my involvement would entail.
“Your job,” he said, jabbing his finger at me across the table, “will be to carry the shotgun.”
Now I'm not the type of bloke who is confident around guns, or bears for that matter, so it felt completely necessary to voice my anxiety.
“Blimey, what would you expect me to do with the shotgun?” I asked incredulously.
“You..." he replied, “if it all goes pear shaped, and the bear knocks me off the roof....you shoot the dog!”
Canadians.......
Regards
Gerard......I'm a Portugeezer
At Santarem the pilgrimage route to Fatima deviates out to the left, away from the Camino Portuguese I've been on since Lisbon.
I'd be stopping in Santarem the night, then continuing on the Portuguese, back down into the Tejo river valley again, then ever onward toward distant Porto.
“I count my steps up to 100,” he said. “Then stop for a rest. Then another 100, then another rest….and so on, until I get to the top.”
“All very well for you mate,” I replied, having come to a similar conclusion about plodding uphill, “but I can only count to 50.”
That was our first verbal encounter.
A little further on and we came across a rest area. Set high into the hillside was what appeared to be an large old monument. A series of oblong, concrete drinking troughs for horses were spread in line across a high, concreted cliff face. Built for parties of travelers on horseback I guess. A few spouts had been added to cater for the riders, and for foot travelers who were maybe even pilgrims like us.
After satiating our thirst we introduced ourselves.
“Canadian,” he said.
“Kiwi, but I live in OZ....and I don't know if I want to walk with a Canadian again. Last lot I walked with were very rude to me.”
“You probably deserved it,” he said.
“I did,” I had to agree, “made a right Charlie of myself in public. Having a laugh at my expense was ok, I deserved that, but those guys continually rubbed my nose in it, wouldn't leave it alone. No excuse for that. Uncivilized behavior. That's what it was.”
We refilled our water bottles then perched on the side of the horse troughs. Off came my boots and socks. I spun and plunged my legs down into the luxuriously cold water. My feet swirled about in the deep.
“You trying to kill the horses?” he asked. "Obviously you Kiwis don't know how to behave yourselves when out and about in the world. Comes from living on a few scattered rocks at the bottom of the South Pacific Ocean. Too isolated. Not socially integrated with the rest of humanity. I mean the next stop is Antarctica! And you're closest neighbours are the Aussies. That's gotta tell you something!”
“Our ancestors did their best to get as far away as possible from the likes of your lot cobber. Just a joy ride in a dingy across the Atlantic for them. Soft, that's what they were. And anyway who wants like to live up to their ears in snow all year round.
Talk about Climate change....I bet you lot are all at church on Sundays praying for it. Gotta have rocks for brains to live there, that's what I reckon.”
He was walking out to Fatima.
Not me.
So next morning I made sure to catch up, for a farewell over breakfast.
We were staying at the fine Santarem hostel where a variety of room types and dorms are available, and which is so well managed and maintained by Mario, our fellow forum member. You need to call in and say hello to him. Good bloke he is. Very helpful to pilgrims.
“For a Kiwi, you're not such a bad sort really,” said my Canadian friend as we sat at the breakfast table, ”and you'd be most welcome to come stay if you ever happen to visit Canada. In fact I could do with a hand at work now and then, so you could stay a while if you'd like.”
“Likewise if you ever get to OZ,” I replied, "and I'll keep your invite in mind. But give you a hand? What would that entail? What do you do for a crust?”
“Pest eradication and removal,” he said, “but my specialization is in bear removal.”
“Don't know about that,” I replied doubtfully, “don't know if I'd be of much help there.”
“Nothing to worry about,” he said, “I'll tell you how it goes down.
Now where I live we have somewhat of a bear problem. They come roaming into town from the surrounding forests looking for food. People try to chase them away but they often then just climb up on the roof of the house. It's what bears do to escape, they climb.
That's when they call me.
I roll up in my big van. Its got a cage in back. My gear consists of a ladder, a baseball bat and a shotgun. As there are bears involved I also take my dog. He's a mean old Pitbull.
First thing I do is put the ladder against the house. Then I climb up and proceed to knock the bear off the roof with the baseball bat.
The Pitbull rushes in immediately and grabs the bear by its, you know, its private parts.
“By the goulies?” I exclaimed, consumed by that horror that appears innate to all males.
“That's it!” he said. “That subdues the bear to such an extent that I am able to safely get it into the cage in back of the van.”
He then proceeded to explain what my involvement would entail.
“Your job,” he said, jabbing his finger at me across the table, “will be to carry the shotgun.”
Now I'm not the type of bloke who is confident around guns, or bears for that matter, so it felt completely necessary to voice my anxiety.
“Blimey, what would you expect me to do with the shotgun?” I asked incredulously.
“You..." he replied, “if it all goes pear shaped, and the bear knocks me off the roof....you shoot the dog!”
Canadians.......
Regards
Gerard......I'm a Portugeezer
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