Tag Archives: Triacastela

The Wrong Path is the Right Path

Triacastela to Barbadelo
Saturday 29 November

Out of Triacastela there were two routes, one via Samos, and the other six kilometers shorter, and supposedly more rural. I had decided on the shorter route, as I had planned to walk to Ferredios which was about thirty two kilometers the shorter way. I turned right at the turn off, as instructed, but after a while was following the river. The other route follows the river. The walk was lovely, along a narrow leaf strewn muddy path. Delightfully soft underfoot. Gnarled twisted trees, covered in mosses and lichen, dappled sun through the almost bare branches. The cool clear river crisscrossing my path. I soon passed a town that I reccognised from the map that was on the other route. I was definitely on the wrong path. However it seemed right for today. I wasn’t going the turn back, via Samos it was to be. Vamos to Samos, as the graffiti read.

As I approached the town of Samos, I could see the huge Benedictine Monastery in the valley below through the mist. It looked eerie and spectacular. Yes, I had chosen the right wrong path. I continued down the steep road, entering the town. I circled the monastery, to see if I could see beyond the walls. There was a door open, and I saw a couple of pilgrims. I entered a small shop, and asked if I could go inside. There was a tour starting in ten minutes. I waited the required time, then the lady closed the shop and led me through the large double wooden doors. I was the only person on the tour, and she spoke good English. She led me through the two large cloisters, and upstairs into the church. Explaining the history, and many details. There are now only fourteen monks living here. Upstairs one elderly monk approached us and asked if I spoke Spanish. He then spoke to my guide who explained that he had been talking about the young monk in the garden below who was picking the last of the persimmons from the many trees, and doing some pruning – apparently he was ‘doing it wrong’. Young monks, like young people anywhere.

The tour finished and I went in search of coffee. Another pilgrim I had previously met was in the bar, so I joined him for a sandwich and a glass of vino. My quick stop extended to two hours, I better get a move on. The afternoon’s path continued to delight.

The fools in my head were presenting all sorts of possibilities today. I was unsure of whether to believe them, and asked for a sign. I hadn’t noticed any reference to owls for a few days, which seems to have become a totem of late, and thought that I might see one along the path. I came across a house, with all sorts of strange dolls and objects around the garden. I pulled out my camera, then noticed it right in the middle – a large cement owl staring right at me. Perhaps the wrong path is the right path.

Later I saw a flock of sheep, and a sheep dog sitting in a nearby car. Dogs don’t usually faze me, so I said hola, and he jumped out of the car. I though he was coming over for a sniff, but he circled me, then gave me a nip on the leg. I was more shocked than anything, and concerned about rabies. I pulled up my leggings, but it hadn’t really drawn blood, just scratched the surface, more like a bruise. I applied Bettadine, and will keep an eye on it.

Moving on, I thought I saw the man I had had lunch with earlier, but as I approached realised that it was not. This man had all sorts of anti abortion posters and information hanging from his pack. There was prolife graffiti all along the path today, perhaps he was responsible. I quickly moved past, not wanting to engage.

I arrived in Sarria later than expected, and I was getting tired. I didn’t want to stay in this large town of thirteen thousand. I wasn’t sure I had the energy to make it another twelve kilometers before it got dark. There was another small town about one hour away, hopefully they would have an alburgue open.

It was five o’clock by the time I arrived in Barbadelo. I walked through the town, but couldn’t find a alburgue open. I would have to trudge on for another two hours. Luckily it wasn’t raining. As I left the town, I noticed an alburgue and went to see if it was open. To my delight it was. They said they had no food, but there was a nearby Resturant that would open at seven. I settled in for the night.

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A Walk in the Park

Ruitelan to Triacastela
Friday 28 November

Rain. Wetting rain as my mother would say. That constant light drizzle that wets to the bone. I walked with my American friend in the cold and wet until O’Cebreiro where she wanted to stay the night. We stopped at the historic ninth century church, then went for a hot chocolate. I said goodbye and wished her Buen Camino. I had enjoyed her company for the last few days, particularly our little detour, but I needed to be moving on a little more quickly. Unfortunately my flight back to Indonesia isn’t changeable.

I continued along the way, the drizzle cleared, and the fog moved in. Eventually the sun began to shine, and the landscape opened to rolling hills. I still can’t get over how rugged and rural this part of Spain is. I was enjoying the quicker pace, as I was feeling the lack of exercise of the last few days. It’s nice to move everyday. I feel I have gained physical strength doing the camino (and perhaps mental strength). I won’t be running any marathons soon, but walking thirty kilometers is a walk in the park. A long park.

Still wishing for snow, I was looking hopefully at the grey clouds in the distance, but to my disappointment, the temperature seemed to get warmer.

The final six kilometers into Triacastela were muddy and earthy. There was a small grader clearing the path, and the smell of freshly turned soil permeated the air. The ground was soft under foot and, although still light, the moon had risen. The path ran between green fields. I was keen to get to my destination, but slowed my pace to enjoy the surroundings, and inhale the cool earthy aroma.

I was tired and hungry when I arrived in Triacastela, so showered and headed out to a bar to eat.