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.

May 5

Las Herrieas to Triacastela 32 km. I’m afraid my steripen finally failed to function properly, and I was visited by that Italian mobster Sal Manella. Felt rocky all day even though it was once again a beautiful walk. Heading up over a rise I turned to find a farmer with his two dogs. On his shoulder was a huge hoe, and he was riding bareback a stout white farm horse. Not sure if he was heading to off work or returning from it, but he was smiling the smile of someone aware of the beauty of the world where he labored. My intestinal distress precluded sampling the Triacastela cuisine, opting instead for an early evening’s repose.

May 4

Villafranca to Las Herrieas. Some days the walk is not really the highlight. I missed the mountain path turn out of Villafranca so it was a road walk most of the day. Apart from a pleasant stop by a stream in the shade, an unremarkable day that was redeemed by the simplest of things. The Camino is now filling with short term pilgrims so the only way to be sure to get a bed at an Albergue is to stop early. When I got to Herrieas I got a bunk, shower and strolled over to the local bar, finding a spot out front facing a field with cows, a stream, and a bellowing bull. Rudy and I went in to order beer but found the place packed with the carpenters and stone masons working on the building next door. On their lunch break, they had the bar keeper running to pour drinks –a dark liquid from heavy label-less bottles. W soon found ourselves with beer and tapas, listening to the ringing of the single belled cow. Not a sounding brass nor a tinkling cymbal, we were regaled with a clanking bell. Going in for a refill, I passed the bartender eating his lunch, a rare steak. I smiled appreciatively and soon he was cutting slices for me to take out with my beer. When Gloria arrived he went in for more and later set us up with a bottle of local cider poured through a special electric pump to be sure to leave the dregs undisturbed. Realizing this was a special man and bar, Gloria went in and negotiated a steak dinner including chorizo white bean soup and remarkable local wine. Some days you have to follow where the trail leads you.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 3

Ponferrada To Villefranca 28 km. Moving through new climates, flora, fauna, and architecture. The first, most noticeable shift was in the trees, gone are the olives (more or less) replaced by apple and cherry. Atop every bell tower and electric pole are huge stork nests. The birds stand above them, glowering down at walkers, while small songbirds flit in and out of holes cut in the bottom of those huge piles of sticks. And the roofs are now black slate. Back in serious wine country so stopped at Moncloa, an ancient vinyard and set of stone buildings housing a restaurant with a perfect courtyard, vines climbing to form a fragrant roof with great food and Galician music. All in all, it felt like being on a movie set. Dinner in an old Spanish restaurant (not frequented by pilgrims) — trout and octopus.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 2

El Gamso to Ponferrada 42 km. Early on in Walden, Thoreau says, “It is true, I never assisted the sun materially in his rising, but, doubt not, it was of the last importance only to be present at it.” ( I recall my son Charlie once saying that was his favorite line). Thoreau’s sentiment is also shared by my friend Gloria who last night proposed we get up early and hike to the ridge near Cruz de Ferro to watch the sunrise– a walk of 15 km including a long steep climb. At 4:00 am, Gloria, Rudy and I were up and in a few minutes were hiking fast and hard down the path, headlamps dimly lighting the way. The sky was awash with stars, the Milky Way streaming through the middle, punctuated by the occasional meteorite. But the sky had to be ignored most of the time as we had less than 3 hours to cover the distance. Before long a crescent moon rose at our backs, making it a most celestial day. Setting a brisk pace we made the first landmark (the next town) in good time, but Rudy soon had some shin pain, opting to stop a while to rest while Gloria and I pressed on, now climbing the ridge in mud and water while the horizon began to lighten ominously. Soon anticipation gave way to near despair. Pushing on through the just-waking village of Foncebadon, we crested the main ridge, still short of Cruz de Ferre, but with the ideal place to see the morning in. The sleeping pad I’ve been carrying all year finally got some use on the Camino, the perfect cushion to rest and watch the show, and what a show it was. Some low clouds ran interference as the orange intensified, then a brilliant intensity of yellow light turned my retinas purple, but the sun’s rays soon touched all around and, though we had not materially assisted in its rising, we had contributed our mite, and gotten everything in return. It’s a strange feeling to have been up and toiling long and hard only then to recognize that a new day has commenced. We got up, stretched, and made our way to the Cruz de Ferre, an iron cross atop a tall wooden pole surrounded by a huge pile of rocks brought from all over the world. I found a rock by the path and pitched it over my head onto the pile, while Gloria retrieved the one she had carried from some far away place in anticipation of the moment.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon was a roller coaster of ridges, each bringing us closer to a new landscape and climate. The world was transformed. Huge oak trees, many small streams, and an efflorescence of wildflowers changed what had been for so many days dreary flat fields. We walked through color– more color than you can imagine. Lavender, daisies, buttercups–only the beginning of the palette. The towns began to change as well. Terra cotta roofs gave way to slate; the houses crowded the street with heavy-timber cantilevered second story porches shading the way. On the way to the valley floor to Ponferrada, we passed villages choked with wisteria and amazing old woodwork. Stopped for lunch at Molinaseca, a town with a Roman arched bridge across a river flowing past an inviting cafe. Since mayday had fallen on Sunday (yesterday), the holiday was today so the patio was soon flooded with families enjoying their day.

After already hiking 35 km, it was with real reluctance that I finished my iberica ham and melon lunch and shouldered the bag for the last 7 km–such is the pilgrim life. On the way into the city, Rudy rejoined us, so we found the Albergue, had a paella dinner, and slept the sleep of the dead. If ever a day was carpe diemed, it was this one.

T. Hugh Crawford

May 1

Hospital de Orbigo to El Gamso 31 km. This day took me across the rest of the meseta to the edge of the first line of mountains leading into Galicia. The highlight was midday in Asturga, arriving on a Sunday at the center city as mass let out. Crowds filled the square while I drank coffee, watched pilgrims, locals dressed in traditional clothing, and assorted other passersby while the city bells chimed. Sometimes there is nothing better than a quiet cup of coffee on a city square where everyone moves at an unhurried pace. Visited the Gaudi mansion/castle and the cathedral then headed back out on the plain, trying to get a reasonable number of kilometers in. Arrived late afternoon at El Gamso to discover a Galician proprietor of the Albergue playing the banjo. Learning I was American and from the Appalachian mountains, he pressed me to play. I could only convince him with some difficulty that I was entirely unmusical. Rudy trailed through a little later, so he, Gloria, and I had a mediocre perigrinos dinner at the local market, planned the next day and retired early, but not before watching the sunset over the range that is tomorrow’s goal.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 30

Leon to Hospital de Orbigo 32 km. Enjoyed my hotel room with a late start for an uneventful day. After making my way out of the city which had stark shadows from the bright morning sun, and then some suburbs, the path moved out into the fields, first on a muddy track but finally just a long straight road that looked very much like the road to nowhere Charlie Chaplin and Paulette Goddard walk at the end of Modern Times. It was a Saturday and one small village had a table with fruit and juice set up for pilgrims. The orange juice here still amazes me. My new shoes kicked up a blister — first I’ve had in many months–but completely expected. An early lunch in Choses de Abajo and watched a German Shepherd follow a couple of pilgrims for at least 5 km. They disappeared and soon he was following me. Very sweet dog, but every step took him further from his home. Midday and I crossed paths with Gloria and we walked together the rest of the day, finding ourselves late afternoon at Albergue Verde, a very strange place with lots of guitar playing, pseudo-spiritualism, and assorted mumbo-jumbo. The place was very noisy and busy. They grow a lot of their food and served a great meal. The place was full of many of the pilgrims I’ve hiked with, but was, in a word, crowded.

T. Hugh Crawford