The shade stayed for longer than I wanted as despite warming up, it made for more cold than cool. The road snaked up underneath the huge impressive struts and pillars of a new motorway overhead that pierced the mountains, tunnelling through and bridging the deep shady valleys we pilgrims and the villages through which we passed were in. Soon enough I came out into open sunnier valleys and continued up through villages. In one I cycled past a young man pushing a wheelchair in which sat the twisted form of someone wrapped against the cold making their pilgrimage for very different reasons to mine and, I imagined, those of a great many others. I said hello, and wished them good day and a good Camino, and the young man pushing returned my greeting. I was immediately reminded of the pilgrim I had seen the previous morning.
She was an elderly lady, quite small and white haired, with a bent back. She was pulling a large bag behind her with both hands gripping the handle of what is best described as one of those large wheeled 'team' bags most often seen being dragged through airports by 'gap year' travellers. And this was on a flattish, stoney track that was no more than a path, heading towards the mountains. I remembered the two young women in front of me trying to get past the old woman and saw as they gave each other quizzical looks. I remembered thinking then that this Camino is not a new, latest trend hike for the moneyed youth of the rich western world who no longer feel safe going to the Middle East, or parts of the Far East now, and are looking for some kind of story adventure. This has been a pilgrimage route for a thousand years.
On a bend in the road above me I spotted a cyclist resplendent in his sporty cyclist outfit. He waved and I assumed he was in trouble but as I came closer I saw another cyclist with him, a woman, but he called over and said 'sun!' We greeted each other and he introduced himself in Italian as "Roberto, Bob!' and his wife, Margaretta. They were riding tandem and he indicated, with his hands behind his head that she sat at the front working while he rested behind and did nothing. She laughed, but still jabbed him the ribs. They had driven from Milano, with the bike on the roof rack, left the car at León where they started their camino.
After warming ourselves in the sun it was time to go on and I continued onwards and upwards towards the col. Each time I thought I was there I'd reach a bend and see yet more bends ahead.
At one point a thin-tyred lightweight racer in Team SKY went up past me with a greeting and a 'Buen Camino'; a large group in single file of motorcycles descended fast, one of whom on a deep-throated roaring Harley-Davidson gave a salute acknowledging my effort, which I very much appreciated. It had happened before, van drivers, truck drivers in towns, on country roads, hooting to wave Buen Camino; it was unmistakeable. When one hoots to say get out of the way, they rarely smile.
After a little over 2 hours climbing, Pedrafita do Cebreiro came into view. A busy town with many guarda civil standing about joking amongst themselves and some of the locals. Now I was in Galicia, having crossed from Castilla-León. As I took a short break above the town I looked down onto a scene no doubt repeated throughout mountain villages all over Europe at harvest time. Cows, groomed, stood or lay tethered on straw awaiting buyers; various marquees and tents were pitched nearby and throngs of people milled about while the strains of a brass band lifted up towards me. I have seen similar September events throughout France, Switzerland and Italy. They all follow the same pattern; the booze tents selling small glasses of local wine and beer, with some sort of sausage stuffed into a portion of baguette. I have to admit I thoroughly enjoy them.
I ate a small croissant, drank more water, finished the last of my Kendal Mint Cake, bought last May in Yorkshire and carried on towards Alto San Roque, where I was joined by Roberto & Margaretta. They seemed elated and Roberto greeted me like an old friend. A mountain had been attacked, tackled and beaten. Or so we thought.
There, stood a huge fabulous statue to the 'pilgrim' continuing against the elements. A reminder of what this journey really is as if one needed a reminder but it wasn't over yet. The road having started to descend, climbed once more. Sharper than I thought, until I reached Alto de Poio. And the relief was fantastic. Elation.
The highest point on the Camino and the last of the three mountain ranges the Camino de Santiago crosses. Another stop for more fuel intake, this time in the form of a soda type fizzy drink... oh, how I wanted a beer, two beers, but as I had a good distance to do I had to remain sharp. Not relaxed at this point. Refreshed, rested and having had an enjoyable chat with a couple of French guys walking from Brittany, I could start to descend but it wasn't all plain sailing, the road did undulate over the remaining 22km, more than I expected, but as it descended it passed a magnificent Benedictine monastery at Samos. Worth a beer stop that was, as I'd only now got another 11km to go.
I arrived in Sarria, a closed town on this Sunday and became frustrated looking for my pension bed for that night and once again the kindness of strangers became evident. One not only providing a map, but drawing carefully a line to my accommodation.
It was worth it. La Casona de Sarria (should have been called La Casona de Marcella) was found. I encountered the owner, was directed to the garden to park Modestine in all safety and he signed me in, I paid my €10 for a bunk bed, agreed the €4 for breakfast and then his wife entered, introduced herself as Marcella and said, "you look like you could do with a beer, shall I get you one?" And with that she went off and quickly returned with a cold can of beer. What a delight! I was then shown to the bunk room, chose the lone single bed in it, dumped my gear and went down to wash and hang out the sweat soaked cycling gear of the day. As I was hanging in out, Marcella brought me another beer and started to tell me about the various places to eat in town, and then mentioned as a throw away name, the Hotel Roma 3* with its Michelin restaurant that offered a pilgrim menu for €16. That'll do I thought and only a short walk along the overgrown river running beside the Casona.
After warming ourselves in the sun it was time to go on and I continued onwards and upwards towards the col. Each time I thought I was there I'd reach a bend and see yet more bends ahead.
At one point a thin-tyred lightweight racer in Team SKY went up past me with a greeting and a 'Buen Camino'; a large group in single file of motorcycles descended fast, one of whom on a deep-throated roaring Harley-Davidson gave a salute acknowledging my effort, which I very much appreciated. It had happened before, van drivers, truck drivers in towns, on country roads, hooting to wave Buen Camino; it was unmistakeable. When one hoots to say get out of the way, they rarely smile.
After a little over 2 hours climbing, Pedrafita do Cebreiro came into view. A busy town with many guarda civil standing about joking amongst themselves and some of the locals. Now I was in Galicia, having crossed from Castilla-León. As I took a short break above the town I looked down onto a scene no doubt repeated throughout mountain villages all over Europe at harvest time. Cows, groomed, stood or lay tethered on straw awaiting buyers; various marquees and tents were pitched nearby and throngs of people milled about while the strains of a brass band lifted up towards me. I have seen similar September events throughout France, Switzerland and Italy. They all follow the same pattern; the booze tents selling small glasses of local wine and beer, with some sort of sausage stuffed into a portion of baguette. I have to admit I thoroughly enjoy them.
I ate a small croissant, drank more water, finished the last of my Kendal Mint Cake, bought last May in Yorkshire and carried on towards Alto San Roque, where I was joined by Roberto & Margaretta. They seemed elated and Roberto greeted me like an old friend. A mountain had been attacked, tackled and beaten. Or so we thought.
There, stood a huge fabulous statue to the 'pilgrim' continuing against the elements. A reminder of what this journey really is as if one needed a reminder but it wasn't over yet. The road having started to descend, climbed once more. Sharper than I thought, until I reached Alto de Poio. And the relief was fantastic. Elation.
The highest point on the Camino and the last of the three mountain ranges the Camino de Santiago crosses. Another stop for more fuel intake, this time in the form of a soda type fizzy drink... oh, how I wanted a beer, two beers, but as I had a good distance to do I had to remain sharp. Not relaxed at this point. Refreshed, rested and having had an enjoyable chat with a couple of French guys walking from Brittany, I could start to descend but it wasn't all plain sailing, the road did undulate over the remaining 22km, more than I expected, but as it descended it passed a magnificent Benedictine monastery at Samos. Worth a beer stop that was, as I'd only now got another 11km to go.
I arrived in Sarria, a closed town on this Sunday and became frustrated looking for my pension bed for that night and once again the kindness of strangers became evident. One not only providing a map, but drawing carefully a line to my accommodation.
It was worth it. La Casona de Sarria (should have been called La Casona de Marcella) was found. I encountered the owner, was directed to the garden to park Modestine in all safety and he signed me in, I paid my €10 for a bunk bed, agreed the €4 for breakfast and then his wife entered, introduced herself as Marcella and said, "you look like you could do with a beer, shall I get you one?" And with that she went off and quickly returned with a cold can of beer. What a delight! I was then shown to the bunk room, chose the lone single bed in it, dumped my gear and went down to wash and hang out the sweat soaked cycling gear of the day. As I was hanging in out, Marcella brought me another beer and started to tell me about the various places to eat in town, and then mentioned as a throw away name, the Hotel Roma 3* with its Michelin restaurant that offered a pilgrim menu for €16. That'll do I thought and only a short walk along the overgrown river running beside the Casona.
I declined the menu. Many of the pilgrim menus are very similar despite being extremely good value, but they often lack the green stuff I felt I needed.
I started with Iberian dried ham on tomato & salt toast, continued with coquille st jacques, fried in olive oil with garlic and pimientos, with the most beautifully tasting rustic bread for dipping and the main course was whole oven baked sea bass, with boiled potatoes & pimenton. Veggies on the side & salad. A good bottle of local Galician Tinto helped it all along and I finished with flan. A fabulous deep egg flan custard made with what seemed a like a dozen yolks! I was never going to sleep after all that!
While I ate all that I listened to the noise of people screeching their delight at what I knew not, but evidently these pilgrims weren't wearing sackcloth and ashes. And I took in some of the restaurant's fine décor.
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