2025-11-19
A transcription of my diary from the Camino de Santiago.
Tags: travel
<< previousDay 20, Friday, October 27th 2023, Mondoñedo (19.37km, 492.08km total)
As I left, Nicole pointedly reminded me where to find the donation box. More like "coercion" box, amirite? I'd already left some money, anyway. Reading reviews for Granja de Calor, there seemed to be a lot of people complaining about how shabby the place was. I guess that's why they made it a donativo albergue. They couldn't be held to the same standards as other albergues if people got to stay there for free and donate whatever they wanted... right??? Regardless, I'd enjoyed hearing their story and the food had been tasty.
The rest of the day: boredom, monotony, and the ascension and descension of hilly forested trails. Every day the landscape reminded me more of Ireland. Patchwork farms and vivid green vegetation.
I sheltered under a bus stop during a sudden downpour and watched chess videos on my phone. Popped in to a café for a snack and a drink, where there were 4 old guys speaking gallego (the local language of Galicia). It sounded like strongly accented Spanish, with a sprinkling of Portuguese, but I couldn't understand a word. I stopped for lunch in Lourenzá, then continued on until Mondoñedo. My accommodation, Hotel Padornelo, was basic but functional, and cost €30 for the night. A kind lady checked me in and complimented my Spanish, even though I'd only said a few stock phrases to navigate our interaction. For food, I went to a lively bar that was a short walk away in the town. There I had patatas bravas, croquettes and red wine.
Day 21, Saturday, October 28th, Gontán (15.43km, 507.51km total)
An ascent of 700m, and the wind was very strong and annoying. Wind turbines everywhere. I left late in the morning, feeling bored and low in motivation. I hoped it was a phase and that my enthusiasm would soon return. Perhaps it was a consequence of the relative isolation I'd experienced the day before.
On a typical day, when walking alone, I whistled and sang to entertain myself. I also learned a Spanish rhyme to practice the double R sound: "Erre con erre cigarro, erre con erre barril, rápido ruedan los carros cargados de azúcar del ferrocarril". (Or: "R with R cigarre, R with R barrel, the cars of the train roll quickly loaded with sugar"). It was a conscious decision not to bring earphones, since listening to music or podcasts might distract from my surroundings. Even without earphones, however, I often daydreamed my way through much of the day.
I encountered Nico, the giant bearded Frenchman who talked and laughed to himself in French. We always exchanged a friendly greeting, despite the language barrier. He had made efforts to speak to me in French, but I was only ever able to pick up a word or two. French would probably be the most useful language to know on the Camino after Spanish and English, since there were a lot of monolingual French speakers walking it.
It was a short segment, ending in Gontán, and yet, due to my lack of motivation, I was relieved to be finished for the day. I was lucky to miss a downpour that started shortly after I arrived. Among the people in my albergue were: Nico; Sonia and Mira (the Ukrainians); Contain (my best attempt to transcribe his French name); and a Spanish man who humblebragged about how far he was walking each day. I ate a tortilla sandwich at a typical Spanish bar, and spent the rest of the evening talking to the other pilgrims. I finally learned a bit more about the life situation of Sonia and Mira. Sonia had left Ukraine at the beginning of the war and was now living in Berlin. Mira had also left and was somehow involved in acting or the arts.
Day 22, Sunday, October 29th, Vilalba (21.6km, 529.11km total)
Flat terrain, a little muddy but nothing unpassable. My ankle wasn't hurting so much anymore, but it still felt fragile and I was hesitant to walk on it too fast or for too long. I met some new people: Robert (from Canada), Mary (from Las Vegas), and Chris and Monica (a Swiss couple I remembered seeing earlier in the trip, perhaps at Padre Ernesto's albergue). Robert and I went for tea on arriving at Vilalba. He was a 70-year-old carpenter from Vancouver. Since my sister was living there and I'd gone to visit her a few times, I knew a bit about the place. He said he'd grown up in Vancouver before it had blown up in size, population, and expensiveness. His brother had been a victim of the opioid crisis in North America, like many others.
We also spoke of the Palestine-Israel conflict. Robert believed that it was a religious conflict, fuelled by extremists on both sides. Ignorant as I was about the history of Palestine, I didn't buy that narrative. People often (mistakenly) said the same thing about the conflict in Northern Ireland: Catholics and Protestants, unable to reconcile over minute doctrinal differences in their religions! This is a convenient gloss over the colonial roots of these conflicts.
After tea, I went to my albergue, As Pedreiras, which turned out to be lovely. It was warm, there was a guitar, and there were cool maps hanging from the wall. Everyone was given their own towel, sheets and pillow. When the host saw me noodling with the guitar, he pulled out his own guitar from behind the reception and I was conscripted into a mini concert. We played a few songs that he had sheet music for: La flaca, Let It Be, Mariposa traicionera, and El sonido de silencio (The Sound of Silence). By the end, my hands were trembling from the hunger, since all the supermarkets were closed on Sundays and I hadn't been able to buy food anywhere. I rushed to find a restaurant, and ended up at A Taberna, where I gorged myself on spaghetti with tomato sauce, padrón peppers, bread, tarta de abuela (grandma's tart), and a caña.
At the albergue were all the aforementioned pilgrims, as well as Ivano (the "citizen of the world"), the boastful Spaniard (from Granada, he wasn't so bad), a Dutch guy called Jeron (probably a transcription error), and a German gentleman who claimed to be walking 40km per day. German Man was barefoot, so Spanish Man asked me to tell him that he should put on his socks to avoid the risk of fungal infection. I acted as a translator between the two men for a few minutes, which was always a fun experience. I then continued talking to the German guy in a mix of English and half-remembered German from school. It was a novelty to encounter a German who didn't speak English at a high level. That said, his English was still a lot better than my German.
I read a bit and watched some shite on my phone before bed. My progress with Los detectives salvajes was slow. Such a long book, with so very little happening in it.
Day 23, Monday, October 30th, A Lagoa (40km, 569.11km total)
I left Vilalba fairly late, after having breakfast in a cafetería. It was a cold morning, and I could see my own breath, but my enthusiasm had been renewed, probably from all the socialising I'd done the day before. I also hadn't been getting enough sleep, so it must've helped to get a reasonably good rest.
It was an intense day, emotionally speaking. I was walking past some houses in the countryside when I heard a pained cry for help from someone's garden. I looked around and caught a glimpse of bright red. It was an old lady lying on the ground with blood on her face. I ran over to her. She'd fallen down the stairs at the side of her house. She said her head was sore, and it hurt her to move, so I didn't want to risk lifting or moving her. There was blood dripping from a gash above her mouth. I couldn't tell if she had broken a bone. She also seemed confused, as when I asked where her family was, her answer varied between her house, Bilbao, and Vilalba. Either that, or my Spanish comprehension was failing me.
I wasn't sure what to do. I tried to support her back so she wasn't just lying there on the ground. She didn't want me to call the emergency services, for some reason - maybe in denial of how serious the situation was? Or worried that they'd take her away from her home? She kept trying to give me money, even though I'd been pretty useless up to that point. I asked her if she had any neighbours, then went to find them in the direction she pointed. By this point, I was full of adrenaline and my mind was completely focused on resolving the situation.
Next door, I found an elderly couple who seemed to be farmers. Their dog let it be known that my presence wasn't appreciated. The neighbours themselves, when I told them what had happened, said that they didn't want to get involved. Something about how the woman had burned all her bridges. I at least managed to extract from them the street address and the woman's name. The wife let out a stream of curse words - not directed at me, she just seemed really stressed.
Disgusted by their unwillingness to help, I returned to the injured woman, and after another inconclusive attempt to convince her that we should call the emergency services, I just went ahead and did it. I knew the European-wide emergency number was 112. This was my first time calling it. I was passed from person to person as they narrowed down where I was and what the problem was. It took me a while to explain, in halting Spanish, what had happened and exactly where the house was located. It didn't help that my phone's GPS was imprecise in that area.
After the call, I was joined by a French couple who were passing by on their Camino. They spoke neither English nor Spanish, but they were at least able to offer their emotional support, and even went in search of more neighbours, only to find the same useless pair that I'd encountered earlier.
Eventually, three female paramedics arrived in an ambulance and attended to the injured woman, at which point she began to cry. She gave me a key to her house and asked me to make sure the front door was locked. After that, with the situation under control, I had a moment to breathe, and released some tears of my own. The tears came from shock, relief, and the sadness of the situation. Here was a woman living by herself, senile, with seemingly no family taking care of her, and alienated from her neighbours. I could only hope she'd be well taken care of.
When the paramedics assured me that everything was okay, I left. I was so frazzled that I neglected to say goodbye to the woman. Later, I also regretted that I hadn't told off the neighbours for their ugly behaviour.
I walked quickly, still feeling emotional. I passed the French couple, who had left a minute or so before me. They shared a sympathetic look and checked that I was okay. And then, for the second time on the Camino, I passed a dead badger on the side of the road.
As I walked, I reflected on what had happened and on some associated coincidences. I was reminded of the painting in Padre Ernesto's albergue, which depicted pilgrims helping a person in need - the injured woman and I had been in the same pose, with her lying on the ground and me crouched at her side supporting her back! I'd also wondered to myself, while walking through the remote countryside, what would happen if I encountered an injured person. And a week or so previously, I'd seen a dog wandering about with a leash trailing behind it, and I'd had the morbid thought that maybe its owner had collapsed somewhere while bringing it for a walk.
Another thing. This had been my first time interacting with emergency services. I'd never fully appreciated how amazing it was that a single phonecall could summon an ambulance, or a police car, or a firetruck to help a citizen in need. Society is actually kinda good, I guess?
I arrived at Baamonde, where I found Ivano and Jean (a French man who had been at the albergue in Vilalba). I told them about my dramatic experience, bought some provisions at a shop there, and then set out with them towards an albergue called A Lagoa, which was about 13km ahead. I'd wanted to do a shorter segment (31km vs 40km), but I didn't have a choice because the closer albergue was closed. In any case, A&W had stayed at A Lagoa two days previously and recommended it, and Ivano and Jean were good company. We walked through deciduous forests, and passed by a church from the 16th century. I got a blister on one of my toes, but it barely hurt and it was a while before I even noticed it.
Towards the end of the day, we walked by the house of an old sculpture artist. Ivano seemed to have heard of him. The man himself was at home and he invited us inside to look around.
We arrived at A Lagoa and met the kind host that A&W had told me about. Many pilgrims I'd recently encountered were already there: Nico, Robert (the Canadian), Mary (the estadounidense), and Monica and Chris (the Swiss couple). We ate well: the host's mother made us soup, pasta, and tarta de Santiago (a type of almond cake). I had a few glasses of a local wine, and they gave us some slices of leftover birthday cake. I told my new pals the story of the fallen woman. Monica in particular showed me a lot of empathy, and seemed to understand how distressing the incident had been. From that moment on, I felt very fond of her.
Day 24, Tuesday, October 31st, Sobrado dos Monxes (27.29km, 596.4km total)
I left the albergue around 8am. My destination for the day was Sobrado dos Monxes, and the monastery there that offered accommodation for pilgrims. I walked alone at first, but encountered other pilgrims along the way. I stopped to chat with Mary, Monica, Chris and Robert in a café. This segment wasn't challenging, but I did have to cross a giant muddy puddle, in the process of which my shoes and socks got soaked. I just hoped there wasn't any caca de vaca (cow shit) in there. Afterwards, I took off my socks to squeeze the brown water out of them. Yuck.
Industrial farms. Grey buildings with no windows. If light couldn't enter, then the day-and-night cycle of the animals could be controlled, and in that way, chickens, for example, could be manipulated to produce more eggs. Grain silos for feeding them. I didn't want to imagine what was inside the grey buildings. Thousands and thousands of suffering animals. Crowded together, stressed, never seeing the sun, sleeping on their own faeces. Selectively bred for farming, at the expense of their physical health. Spain was famous for its pig meat, but I hadn't seen a single pig along the way, which probably didn't bode well for the pigs.
Sobrado. It was situated beside an artificial lake that was 100s of years old. Very pretty, but I didn't spend too long admiring it because a storm was about to break out. I arrived at the monastery and was greeted by an English monk called Laurence. He checked me in, along with other pilgrims who'd arrived around the same time - Monica, Chris and Robert. Laurence was a funny character. His words dripped with irony, and he didn't seem to suffer fools. He'd adopted an affectionate orphan cat called Maximilian.
More about Monica and Chris. Monica was a kindergarten teacher, Chris was an electrician. Now they were working half-time, at their leisure. They'd been vegetarians for 30 years, and for 20 of those years they'd owned an organic food shop. Their son walked the Northern Way when he was only 18, though he did suffer some mishaps along the way.
In the evening, I went for some cañas with Robert. We saw a man playing a slot machine in the corner. It was making him very angry. I struck up conversation with some Spanish people who were playing cards at another table. They were playing chinchón, a matching game that seemed to be similar to gin rummy and mahjong. Two of them turned out to be from Bilbao and were visiting their friends in Sobrado. Later, Robert and I got dinner at a bar.
I had to explain to Ivano that Irish people aren't British. I couldn't complain, though, since I'd accidentally called Robert an estadounidense.
That night, I went to bed around 11pm and, as usual, filled out my diary with the day's events, surrounded by the sounds of snoring and pattering rain. I was conscious that my words were unable to transmit even one-hundredth of the experience of being there. I couldn't truly capture the sights, the sounds, the smells, or the feelings, and there were countless anecdotes I'd forgotten.
More about the monk, Laurence. During the check-in, he complained to us good-humouredly. Apparently, on receiving his assignment to Sobrado, his superiors had told him "you're English, so we're sending you there" (I guess because he could speak English to the pilgrims). He'd been at the Sobrado monastery for 14 years, since 2009. Before that, he'd spent many years in Italy. He spoke French and was able to communicate with Nico. He left us old newspapers to dry out our shoes, among which I found a recent edition of El País that I decided to bring with me.
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