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

April 29

Puente de Villarente to Leon 12 km. A short morning stroll through the suburbs with good company brought me to Leon, home of an impressive Romanesque church and a gothic cathedral with some of the finest stained glass in all of Europe. After many nights of Albergue snoring and uneven sleep, I opted to spend a little extra money for a single room in a hostel– my own bed with sheets, a shower, and even a television (and no evening Albergue curfew). Saw many pilgrim friends–the three North Carolina hikers, Gloria, Sophia, Michelle, Elena, Rudy, Jens, but I missed saying goodbye to Noeleen who is abandoning because of nagging injuries. Replaced my shoes with some new Salomons, not sure they are the right ones, but at least they fit. Leon is an interesting town with a brew pub–first IPA in months–and lots of free tapas.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 28

Calzadilla de la Hermanillos to Puente de Villarente 32 km. A day out on the big empty. The first 25 km were through slightly rolling fields broken by a few canal crossings, but really just path and sky. It ended finally on arrival in Reliegos and the Torres bar which was covered with hippie graffiti, blasting blues, and made the best coffee so far, a high point in an otherwise blank day. It was, and has been, all about the walking and not about seeing. Unlike the Appalachian trail green tunnel, this is a green plain, but the effect is the same. Walking, you turn inward, only opening out when a bird, or wind, or stand of trees intrudes. Beautiful Albergue tonight with only a few pilgrims, but some of my favorites.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 27

Calzadilla de la Cueza to Calzadilla de la Hermanillos 35 km. Another day on the flats, with only two details that stood out. For some days there have been what, for lack of a better term, I’ll have to call hobbit houses–dwellings built into the rise of a hill, part in, part out of the earth with chimneys, vents, and the like rising from the sod above the hill. Another feature that emerged today was the round barn. It is unclear to me whether they are simply storage barns or if they serve other functions–livestock shelter, etc, but I will make an effort to see one up close. Walking on long open stretches near roads does put movement in the context of transportation, and I guess a movement, a shadow, a gesture by another walker prompted a deep memory. I remembered with remarkable clarity an incident from my youth, the first moment when I really thought about walking as a means of transportation. I was young, probably under 10, in my family’s house on Summit Ave. in Woodstock Virginia. I’m sure my father was at work and I don’t recall where my mother was– if she was out of the house or working somewhere out of earshot. There was a knock at the door and there stood an old man I had never met but who was clearly a farmer. He had a tanned, deeply lined face, a faded hat, and heavy worn shoes. He carried a box full of something green, and asked if I wanted to buy some water cress. I didn’t then know what water cress was, had no money myself, had never purchased groceries for the family, and found myself alone. I’m certain I fumbled about, embarrassed, and ultimately declined the proffered greens. He turned slowly, walked back out to the road, only to walk a few yards before turning into the next driveway. I watched as he went to each of the remaining three houses on the block before walking down the road lined with tall pine trees toward downtown. He was stooped and his tread was slow, but had gravity and dignity. I remember wondering why he was walking instead of driving. He seemed otherworldly, and in many ways he was. A child of privilege–my father was the town surgeon–I understood nothing of the rigors of farming or the economy where he labored, but what struck me most was that, at that young age, I understood that I did not understand. I have since walked the world and probably have taken on a bit of that stoop, but I wonder now if I really understand any more than I did then.

T. Hugh Crawford

April 26

Fromista to Calzadilla de la Cueza 35 km. The meseta, the plain these days where I walk, has many old canals which were once used for transportation but now primarily serve irrigation with weirs that divert water into long heavy concrete aqueducts. The fields remain rapeseed and hay, beautiful, green but boundless, slightly rolling, flat. As in most long-distance tracks, it is easy (and often necessary) to fall into a pattern, rising at the same time, resting at particular points, stopping at regular intervals. On the Camino, the pattern is enforced by the existing support structure– the availability of food at points during the day, towns with albergues at good endpoints. However they can contribute to a certain numbness. For example, the albergues will lock their doors at night, usually around 10:00, which usually is perfectly acceptable. The old adage that hiker’s midnight is 9:00 pm holds here, though the Albergue practice does make me feel as if I’m in high school with a curfew. Still, I have found myself generally amongst the rest of the pilgrims, heading up to the bunkhouse soon after dinner, checking email and settling in for an early evening. Tonight I ate with my friends Gloria and Rudy. Both live in Italy though Gloria is originally from Porto. After dinner we walked up the hill to a bell tower full of swallows next to a cemetery. Gloria and I stayed, feeling the evening wind slowly picking up at our backs. Spread out before us was the broad, slightly rolling plain– flat and green– in stark contrast to the mounded clouds above the horizon. We waited as the sun sank and the colors came up. Purples moving to pink and orange, intense light drawing sharp lines on the vapor. Then the moment when the pink circled the horizon, only then to turn black, and we hurried like delinquent school children back to the Albergue door which remained unlocked. Sometimes people show you what you should have been seeing all along, but for habit, desire for comfort, and a little laziness. These people need to be cherished.

T. Hugh Crawford