One day at a time. – The Portuguese Way to Santiago by the Coast (2).
Monte de Guiheta on the way to Viana de Castelo
Baptism by Ciclogenesis Explosiva
The albergue in Marinhas was battered all night by winds and rain. I was so cosy, alone in this big house, wrapped in my sleeping bag that I only reluctantly obeyed the Red Cross request to leave by 9 am. The albergue was not warm and I was surprised when I opened the front door to discover that the morning was much warmer outside. The albergue, scarcely used all winter, was also rather damp and I was not surprised to find it was damper outside. Indeed there was steady rain which within the first few kilometres began to thud down densely with moments of fury penetrating my gore-tex and my rucksack cover. The Spanish describe these quick forming storms as “ciclogenesis explosivas”. This was Petra soon to be followed by Ruth, Stephanie, Tini and Ulla.
The shop in Belinho. A superb example of Portuguese hospitality.
I noticed an unlikely looking shop as I walked the first kilometres of the day searching for a place for coffee. This Camino takes many small roads without any services so when I saw the steps down into what looked like a bar, I entered. It was not a bar but a shop, very sparse indeed and unheated. A couple, obviously grandparents, were looking after a lively little girl and immediately offered to help me take off my rucksack. My clothes dripped into puddles as I struggled out of my jacket and trousers. I was urged to sit on the only chair and then was offered, without my asking, soup and hot drinks. The couple made every effort to care for me and, indeed, the soup and bread rolls were very welcome. Señora wanted to give me fruit and bread to take with me and when she went off to deliver bread to neighbours when the rain eased a little, she instructed her husband to ensure that I had all that I needed. In the end I accepted a bit of bread but explained that I preferred not to add weight to my bag – so I had to eat some fruit before leaving which was no hardship.
Andrea and her grandfather.
The little girl was called Andrea and was very curious about this wet man with a hairy face who didn’t speak properly. She was charming and I was sorry to have to move on. Her grandfather would not accept any payment which I find is not that unusual in Spain and Portugal but after my previous day’s decision to always pay VAT, carried, for me, a strong message about values.
One day at a time.
I set off in a wet suit with a sodden load on my back warmed by my meeting with this Portuguese family. My left ankle was troubling me and in compensating for it I began to ache in my right knee. In all, I was not, I felt, in a very fit state to walk. The Camino had been along back roads which had been built up and a about a kilometre after the bar it opened out into countryside and then, a bit further on, into a forest. My heart leapt in joy at the sheer beauty of the path.
The Camino enters a forest after many kilometres of coast and roads.
Although I was soaked to the skin I knew I was just where I should be and that the wisdom of Alcoholics’ Anonymous applies universally. Even if walking is hard it is possible to keep on going just “one day at a time”. The threatening clouds of obsession with pain or discomfort disperse in a confidence that “Yes”, all I need to do is be just where I am. My senses became alert to the smells and colours of the eucalyptus forest. I noticed that the little seeds had fallen in the wind with their flowers still attached. I hadn’t known that the eucalyptus had a white daisy-like flower.
Small rock falls caused by the heavy rain.
Monte de Guiheta, the camino descends a beautiful valley.
“One day at a time”, I thought and relaxed into prayer and trust as I began a challenging descent into a valley which had a swollen river racing along it and crashing over falls. The Camino is very well marked and there is a large stone at a crossroads. It took me some time to make out which path to take with the rain dripping off my cap.
Stone in the way: Jacobean Year 2010
The stone is a special marker for the Jacobean year 2010.
The descent is quite difficult in places but the colours were sharp and fresh.
The rain seemed to me as if it were cleansing everything: the land, the air, the river, the trees. At times it was a total immersion and I remembered all the times when drinking water seems the best joy of all, an exquisite pleasure and one of that small group of life’s finest experiences which nature gives to us freely. Here, away from commerce and with all pollution dispersed by the fierce Atlantic winds, the earth seems to be saying, “I’ll rage against you and make new the damage you cause.” Bellow I see an old mill and I wondered if, in the past, it would have been working at full throttle with the river in spate or if it would be shut down because of the enormous strength of the flow.
A mill by some falls.
Closed Churches.
The rain played a long symphony in many moods and at mid-day it reached a crescendo just as I arrived at a church up on a hill which has a notice inviting pilgrims to enter. It was closed and offered no shelter. Looking for its name on Google Earth I find a photo with a caption, “la iglesia estaba cerrada”. It was too wet to take out my camera. I walked very slowly for most of the day and didn’t pass another shop or cafe, so I was grateful for the bread I had been given and ate it on a wall outside another closed church on a hillside. This turns out to be a an old Benedictine Monastery, Mosteiro Beneditino de São Romão do Neiva.
Mosteiro Beneditino de São Romão do Neiva
Some women had come to tidy up the cemetery and we spoke in French. In this area many people worked in France in the 70’s and their French is often excellent. I was told that I should not be walking in this weather. One advantage, though, was that the wind has brought down many oranges and, having declined the offer to taking fruit with me in the little shop, I was able to feast on fallen oranges.
Oranges were plentiful in the overflowing gutters.
The muddy puddles of the previous day were replaced by rocky and gritty rivers. Little stones kept lodging in my sandals which I washed out in the faster flowing rivulets, often walking with one sock off to release them more easily. The other sock I needed to keep on because of blisters which had developed on the upper part of my toes.
The entire path becomes a stream.
By the end of this day which seemed particularly long because of my late and slow start, I eventually arrived at the long bridge into Viana de Castelo. I hobbled across the River Lima on this iron structure which also carries trains on a lower tier, hanging on to the railing just in case one of the fierce gusts of wind might catch me off balance.
The bridge into Viana de Castelo, built by Eiffel.
With great relief I limped into the Youth Hostel where I had a room with good heaters on which to dry all my gear. My bedding had stayed dry inside plastic bags but everything else needed wringing out before being placed above the radiator. Lying comfortably on my dry bed, I felt happy to have been baptised into this series of ciclogenesis explosivas. Then, when I phoned Pilar, I began to wonder about the next day. She told me that cyclogenesis RUTH was due the following night. But today was still today, one day at a time.