May 16-17

Muxia
Along with Finisterre, Muxia is one of the medieval “end of the earth” points. Looking out from the ridge, it is easy to imagine why they would take that view. The area here is the Costa de Morte, a name drawn from the hazards the rocky coast with its powerful currents, but it also brings the proper foreboding a place at the end of the world should evoke. The shore is steep with rocks randomly strewn to produce spectacular spray when pounded by ceaseless waves. On the northernmost point is a church which was nearly destroyed by waves and fire on Christmas Day a few years ago. It is now rebuilt, stones looking strong but still fragile in the face of ocean forces. The town is anything but foreboding. Set between the larger, newer concrete buildings are two-story stone fisherman’s houses. This is a place of the sea, houses low and strong, braced against the weather but turning to the sun, what little sun there is. The people strong and resilient, facing long, cold, wet winters, and springs of rain with only occasional days of sun. I arrived in Muxia with the rain, but on Tuesday, the Galician holiday, the local drum and pipe band (mostly young children playing so seriously) came out to celebrate along with the sun. They serenaded my lunch, and the sun followed me to the beach, pure white sand dampening the roar of the waves on the rocks. The day of sun here is a day of celebration, whether holiday or not. All was in alignment– weather, holiday, and calendar–as it was also my hiking partner’s birthday. Celebration all around. Muxia is a place of food– chipianas, navajas, percebas, langostinos, and of course, plate after plate of pimientos de padrones. Here you must eat well, to appreciate the labors of the fishermen and to have the strength to stand up to the weather that blasts the end of the world.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 15

The apartment buildings along the inner harbor of A Coruna are faced completely with wooden window frames standing off the building about two feet. They collect the morning sun and heat, and from the outside look almost as if the structures are draped in lace. The sun finally made an appearance this morning just in time for coffee by the harbor and a short tour of the castle before catching a bus to Muxia. The ride was along the northwest coast of Galicia before turning south to Muxia, a fishing village on the Atlantic. The bus passed through a series of small towns on the coast, each showing their historically strategic importance with a castle and defensive structures. Muxia, like A Caruna on a smaller scale, is a long narrow town filling a peninsula. Instead of the tower of Hercules, it has a small lighthouse and a large church at the point, a place where the seas crash hard on worn, rounded rocks–a slurry of white foam and constant roar.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 13-14

A Coruna
Now fully in tourist mode, travelled by train to A Coruna, up on the Galician coast to see the ocean but also hear Guadi Galego sing. The weather continues to be Galician sunshine (a constant light rain) but there is something magical about A Coruna. A city bounded by water, a very long history, and subject to very wet weather, the people are incredible– always smiling and helpful. Seems a cliche, but just a fact. Ate twice in an amazing Jamonaria, specializing in old iberica ham (with many hanging from the ceilings) and serving amazing pimientos de padrones — grilled salted small green peppers. The tower of Hercules is an operating lighthouse with much of the same structure built by the Romans in the first century. Was eerie to climb steps and look at a structure that old. Guadi Galego and her band put on an beautiful show. All the songs were in Galician, so I definitely did not understand a word, but the music was amazing. The only mistake was in no checking the soccer schedule as Real Madrid played Coruna Saturday afternoon– would have been fun to see even if the home team lost.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 12

Santiago
Crossing cultures. The end point of a trek, particularly a heavily traveled pilgrimage produces a remarkable convergence of cultures. I spent much of my Camino walking with an Italian and a Portuguese, so our words veered between four languages, appetites varied, and just the simple gestures of daily life had different nuance. Santiago is a veritable Babel of voices, facial expressions, and attitudes. This evening I heard a jazz quartet joined by three singers specializing in Galician folk songs–a strange but somehow perfect crossing of musical cultures. The bass player would have been right at home in a NYC jazz club while the singers played pandeiros–square wooden frames covered with a drumskin on each side and played with a stick alternately rapping the wooden edge and the drum head–and would have been welcome in the village square centuries ago. They could coax an amazing set of sounds from such simple instruments. Like walking, the music helps glimpse an older world, one unknown and even unsuspected.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 11

Santiago
End of trek redux–to not be a walker brings a strange sense of loss. Over breakfast watching peregrinos wander in, seeing them not as colleagues but as someone still trekking is unsettling. Of course I’ll be back amongst the walkers soon enough–will commence the Trans-Swiss Trail later this month and might still hike to Finisterre when the weather clears–but for now, the tourist mantle doesn’t fit well. The true end of the Camino proper (not including the Finisterre extension) is the pilgrim’s mass at the cathedral. They brought out an entire phalanx of priests, and as part of the service read out the countries of origin for today’s peregrinos. Then at the end, there was the high drama of the botofumeiro–a large, heavy silver incense burner swung high by a phalanx of lay brothers. They light, lift, and then, through coordinated pulls on a rope, get the botofumeiro swinging almost to the ceiling. I was in the narrow part of the church so initially it swung up close enough to seem as if it would graze my head. The story is that in the old days (and maybe partly today) the pilgrims arrived filthy and smelly, so the botofumeiro purified the air in the cathedral, or at least helped the regular worshippers to remain. It is quite a spectacle. Spent the evening in the basement of a bar listening to Galician Gaelic music–also quite a spectacle. Former walker, now tourist.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 7

Agriculture– the Camino might be a strong financial engine for this region, but clearly farming defines the people’s lives. The way passed villages that were more clusters of barns than towns, smelling strong but good. An elderly man walking his dog embodied the spirit, a certain joy in his smile and enthusiastic “buen camino.” Last night’s rain cleared today–clouds with patches of blue. When showing optimism for better weather, my mother used to say of the sky, “there is enough blue to knit a Dutchman a pair of pants.” I have no earthly idea where that saying comes from (nor do I want to know), but I invoked it today on setting out. When not crossing pastures, the way wandered in forests–either scrub oak or white pine plantations with the occasional cluster of ancient chestnuts. There were magnificent stone walls, but also stone slab fencing: thin slabs two feet across and three high, almost like a row of headstones, but not so solemn. The pastures and fence rows were all in bloom. Today yellow and purple lupines made their entrance in the swales of grass land. In front of an old stone house up a hill, a very old man swung a scythe clearing the new growth from the gateway. He stopped, pulled out his stone and with several dexterous swipes freshened his edge and continued cutting. I imagined him as a young man, standing there with the same scythe, swinging with more strength but perhaps not with the same skill and method. The land’s footprints here go deep into the past.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 6

Triacastela to Barbadelo 28 km. Galicia is renowned for its green beauty, but walkers the green exacts a price–it rains often, as it did all day today. Not a hard rain, but a good soaking one that left me damp. All that water has to go somewhere, and the streams were all brimming. Little freshets rush down troughs cut in the green grass, and the rivers have numerous falls which on closer inspection are usually revealed as old dams which have become wild enough to pass for falls. Today’s path wound through small valleys and coves, switching often between narrow twisting paved roads (single lane) and muddy farm tracks. Though still feeling under the weather, it was a fine walk, ending at an Albergue in a tiny village. The road is now heavily populated by short-timers who can get their Camino merit badge if they go 100 km–if they start at Sarria, a large town I crossed today.