Taking Portuguese memories across the border to Spain: The Portuguese Way to Santiago by the Coast (4)
Looking over the Minho estuary into Spain; Monte Tecla
Portuguese memories: The Last few miles in Portugal.
The weather was rough when I awoke in Praia de Âncora after a night of fierce storms. It was, however, dry as I set off from the Albergueria – a costly enough hotel – but a sound refuge for such a night which had left a turbulent sea crashing into the coast line. It was nearly low-tide in the morning and from my balcony I could watch the retreating sea still manage to land some impressive punches.
Even at low-tide, the waves battered the coast.
Welcomed as a brother.
The Camino hugged the coast and I was blown northwards towards the border by the wind, a little bit surprised to be leaving Portugal so soon. I’d skipped a day’s walking by starting North of Oporto in Povoa de Varzim. To be leaving on my fourth day seemed a bit too soon. There, ahead through the rain, stood the sacred Monte Tecla, guarding Spain and providing a vantage point for an ancient Celtic village.
In the distance, Monte Tecla.
As the great river Minho which forms the Northern border with Spain came closer I recalled my previous Camino in Portugal, from Coimbra. In particular I thought of the night I had arrived in Oporto hoping to sleep the night in the campsite on the way out of the city. When I arrived at the spot marked “Camping” on my map I found a locked gate and a long defunct camp-site. It was getting dark and a storm was about to break. I carried on walking out of Oporto through the outskirts examining gardens and waste-ground for a suitable place to sleep the night. It was after dark when I noticed that a church was open and when I entered I could see that Mass had just finished. The sacristy door was open. I entered and saw the priest looking at me. He was in discussion with a small group of parishioners. “I was just wondering if you might have some floorspace for me to sleep the night,” I said,” I have all I need for sleeping – a garage would do fine.” At once, one of the group said, “Well, this is a chance to practise what we preach” “Come back to my house. Do you want to come in my car or walk with my children?”
Without any fuss I was given a room, shown the kitchen and invited to use whatever I needed. A time was arranged for breakfast. Only then, over coffee, did I have a few minutes with my host and his family, before they headed off for schools and work. The miracle, for me, is my certainty that there is bond between us which existed before and for ever after this briefest of meetings. Human beings are always united and in acts of generosity and love we can glimpse this enduring reality which is usually obscured by a fog of self-interest and prejudice.
The most ferocious storm had broken that night and I reflected on how both my experiences on this part of the Camino had been dominated by terrible and terrifying weather.
Lameira, from Café D. José, after a huge storm October 3rd 2010
Looking back on this hospitality, offered without hesitation or even enquiry into who I was, out of Christian love, I was sorry I had not been able to return to visit Señor Avelino on this camino.
Claudia and her friends.
It must have been a morning for memories because I was also very aware of the wonderful young people I had known in Guimaraes and Braga (both nearby). I still think of them often. Facebook has kept me in touch with many. I first met Claudia in a Worten store when I wanted to buy a tripod. She spoke fluent English and there is a story (for another time) about how she became the European ambassador for Releaf, a group of young people promoting healthy lifestyle to their contemporaries, representing Releaf on many occasions and being delegate for the group to the EU Alcohol Forum. We often worked together at conferences on Alcohol self-help. But my memory is of the people and this group of young people who had been so lively, generous and great fun.
Claudia and her friends animating a Releaf meeting, 2008.
Pilgrimage as union.
I was surprised at how lovely the little town of Caminho is, poised on the North Western tip of Portugal. A small car ferry, just like those linking the islands in Scotland, makes the 1km journey across the river every hour.
Caminho, the main square.
In the late 70’s I had camped wild on the opposite bank of the river Miño with my fiancée on two consecutive summers. Often at night time there was a lot of noise, clatters, rustlings and voices – one night there was shooting. We had camped on a regular smuggling route which in the day-time was a grassy plain where the locals tamed the wild horses which they had brought down from the mountains in the spring-time. We were adopted by these people who showered us with gifts of their own produce, cabbages, potatoes and aguardiente. On one return journey, out of money and out of petrol only a few miles from the Channel ferry I put a few litres in the tank and paid with a kilo of garlic from our friend in Salcidos. As I crossed on the ferry from Caminho, I noticed that this little village has grown and almost merged with A Guarda.
On the ferry, looking towards Salcidos and, on the right, our camping spot in 1977.
As I crossed the Miño I was aware, as often happens on my Caminos, of all the people who have touched my life. Time dissolves: the touch of a minute, or an hour or years brings union, no matter how long or how short it has lasted. A slideshow of lives plays on the waves as I remember each in love and gratitude and wonder, “What is memory?” Memory it seems is nothing but the contact, once made, is eternal: each soul is a note in an infinitely complex song which fills the space between the stars. We hold within us our ever-growing communities of love which bind into the great communion of saints. This union, in love, with other people draws into itself all life, all things. I am aware of how inseparable we are from this web of Being and wonder if it is age that makes me feel this. Until recently, before this epoch fairly late in life, when I have walked and embraced solitude and silence, I couldn’t see it.
Galicia, España.
I walk off the boat and pass buildings which I recall had been in ruins 40 years earlier, some now restored, like the supermarket which had one been someone’s living room turned into a general store with seats for drinking wine and others empty still and decaying.
Jesuit College of Santiago, A Pasaxe.
My life seems to have lasted only an instant. That, I muse, is fine. “I’m back in Spain again.” That, too, is just fine.