At eight, it feels like the middle of the night, I feel my way to the window to look outside. It takes a while until dusk turns the morning gray and I realize the true extent of the weather. It's raining cats and dogs. There's a strange emptiness in my head.
So that's how it is, instead of taking a leisurely route to Lubian, I sit on my bed and look at my right shin with concern.
I can twist and turn it however I want, the fact is - I'm stuck.
A dark city
It's strange how a pretty city like Puebla de Sanabria can transform. All it takes is rain, darkness and cold. A perfect mixture to turn a city into an ice-cold, dark monster.
That's how it seems to me today. The view out of the window shows gray, wet walls, jagged clouds hanging low over the roofs, smoke from chimneys ruffled by the wind. Occasionally an umbrella or a pulled-up hood, hurrying through the gloom.
One thing is certain – everything has changed in a very short time. The heat is a distant memory, shorts, sunscreen, sweating - all past.
Plans B and C
So today I'm facing an enforced rest day. I extend my stay at the hotel by a day to find out how my leg is doing. Fortunately, there is a health center nearby.
After endless administrative clarifications (who pays the bill?), I am referred to a young, friendly doctor who reassures me that everything will be okay in 2-3 days and that I will be able to continue the Camino. Well, I'm not entirely convinced, but we will see.
The afternoon is dedicated to planning the next few days. The first shock: there is neither a bus nor any other way to get to Lubian. So this stage is already out of the question. At least there seems to be a bus to A Gudiña. From then on, the other stages are to be organized flexibly, but I'm afraid that from now on my hurting leg will be the sceptre, i.e. the travel guide.
That would have been my stage to Lubian. I hate the subjunctive.
Puebla de Sanabria – in fact
In fact, I'm sure that the pretty little town on the hill looks completely different when the sun is shining and is guaranteed to have interesting stories to tell. Let's see.
The climatic conditions are particularly addressed in Wikipedia. I quote:
Winter temperatures can be quite cool, but in summer it is warm to hot; Rain (approx. 760 mm/year) falls throughout the year, with the exception of the summer months.
Falling the whole year through? Really? When I look outside, it seems to me an understatement. Of course there is a Romanesque church (who would have thought it?), a castle, a town hall and a museum. Many sights that would be worth a visit, but today, my interests in such things are extremely limited.
From Puebla de Sanabria to A Gudiña
I wake up late, have breakfast like yesterday in the bar. People know me in the meantime and occasionally give me friendly looks. Or are they compassionate ones? The innkeeper must have chatted.
It starts to rain again. Checkout at twelve, the bus doesn't leave until after two, so I wait in the bar and have a second breakfast. The journey to the departure point takes about half an hour, so I set off.
The umbrella is almost torn from my hands, the rain lashes down. I reach the hotel where the bus stop is located, I am of course much too early and sit down in the restaurant. Thirty minutes later, I see the bus arrive.
View from rainy window
In life, you can never predict at what sight you realize that everything has changed. I have to admit that until that moment on the bus, with the rain lashing down outside the windows, I never doubted that everything will be the same again within a few days.
But now a feeling of unease has settled in, it's not just the aching leg that hasn't got any better despite the doctor's good news, it's the rain, the cold, the darkness. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's this unfortunate mix of all the ingredients that make life difficult.
This is the moment when a journey turns against you, when you realize that everything before was just a preamble to this state.
The ride is wonderful, apart from the fact that I would rather be on foot. The windscreen wipers in front of the front window do their best to keep the water at bay. When overtaking, the bus whips up whole avalanches against the defenceless vehicles. For a moment, I can make out faces through the rain and steamed-up windows, then they are gone.
The stormy weather reminds me of Cordula and Henning, who daringly plunged into the adventure. They're not very far away, but they're at quite a disadvantage when it comes to pleasant hours.
And one more thing – I have actually reached Galicia, although a little differently than I imagined. What can I say, I knew it. The rain, the sometimes inhospitable climate, but only when you are personally affected by it you realize what it means. You might say that the region is green and forested, but it definitely has the bad card when it comes to weather.
A Gudina
Anyway, the bus stops in the middle of the surprisingly large A Gudiña, it takes me a while to realize that it's a ribbon-built village and that my hotel is located at the other end. I've barely taken one step off the bus when the storm hits me full force. I'm barely able to stay on my feet when my hat flies off in a high arc and disappears behind a wall. My loud cursing is drowned out by the roaring storm. With a little effort - the hat is conveniently caught in a bush - I manage to get it a few steps down the slope. Lose my hat? Never in my life.
The way to the hotel is very long, I take refuge in an entrance and put on the poncho. So I walk along the street in the pouring, pounding rain. You have to avoid sidewalks because entire torrents fall from the roof.
I finally reach the hotel – closed, innkeeper Sunday, no one there. I sit down in the covered garden restaurant and curse loudly at the walls. Finally a young girl shows up and explains to me that she has written me an email. Well, so stupid, I didn't see it.
The few kilometers from the bus stop to the hotel were actually enough to get me completely soaked. My trousers are sticking to my legs, the water has found its way into my shoes despite the gaiters, but at least the rest of me has stayed relatively dry.
Finally out of the cold, the room is a bit chilly, but okay. Cordula and Henning, who have made the journey on foot, talk at dinner about the bad road, the rain and wind and all sorts of unpleasant things. I don't envy them, sometimes I think my leg has caught just the right moment to go on strike.
Well, my world is a little different now than it was two days ago. It feels like an eternity. Instead of sunscreen 50, Voltaren, Ibuprofen, an umbrella and a rain poncho have now taken over.
From A Gudiña to Laza
The rain seems to have let up in the morning, but I don't trust the forecast. The minibus almost misses me, but then it's a quick, long drive to Verin. The area would be nice for hiking, but looking out of the window is not a bad alternative.
Verin turns out to be surprisingly big, I quickly find my hotel. It's perfect, hard to believe for the price. I'm settling in for a relaxing day.
In fact, Verin is not on the Camino Sanabria at all, but it might be a not very well-known variant. But the city makes a good impression, one or two walks show quiet alleys and enchanted corners next to busy main axes. The weather, however, makes these trips a short intermezzo.
Laza,
Once again, of course, I'm at the bus stop far too early. However, this gives me the opportunity to observe local daily life. As cars are still the main means of transportation, it's mainly old people and apparently the poorer part of society who can only afford the bus. Well, we know the story.
The journey takes just under half an hour, about the same as the walk from the bus stop in Laza to the hotel. The hotel turns out to be just as empty as the previous one, but what the heck. A young girl is temporarily on hand to explain the facilities of the establishment. After all, I can brew coffee in the morning and there's everything I need for breakfast.
In the afternoon I make a few tentative attempts to explore the village. There isn't much to see, once again no people, not even the obligatory cats that normally populate the village. In the evening there is a kind of pilgrim restaurant where you can get food. The long walk from the hotel to the restaurant in the still pouring rain is tedious, but the food is delicious and, above all, very filling.
From Laza to Xunqueira de Ambia
Technically - the emphasis is on technically - according to the timetable, a bus is supposed to leave Laza for Xunqueira at half past six. Cordula told me that they had been waiting for this bus the day before, without success.
Maybe they've got the wrong day, at least that's what I hope, as I get up tiredly at half past five, brew some coffee in the kitchen and eat a bite.
Because today, with exclamation mark, I finally want to continue the journey on foot. I don't want to do the stretch from Laza to Villar de Barrio along the winding country road, so I'm hoping for the bus.
A phantom bus
And so I'm standing at the bus stop in the central square shortly after six, it's still raining, and I'm waiting anxiously for the bus to come. The funny thing is, you can see the bus's journey on the cell phone. It's moving along the fictitious path, and it looks like it'll arrive in the next few minutes.
There isn't a human soul in sight, it's as quiet as a grave. The village is in a blissful sleep, I can't blame it in this horrible weather.
It's 6:25 a.m. According to my cell phone, the bus has arrived just outside the village limits, so it should be here in a few minutes. Hallelujah! And then it's here ... at least on the cell phone display. I look around to see if I've missed something because of all the tiredness and darkness. I compare my cell phone and the bus stop blankly, but Jesus, there's nothing at all. A phantom bus? A bus from the Harry Potter world?
If it weren't so cold and dark and so damn early, a Homeric laugh would be appropriate, but it would get stuck in my throat. So I have to grudgingly resort to the same solution as Henning and Cordula and call a taxi.
It takes a while for a sleepy voice to answer. But it seems as if he has just been waiting for another hiker who has been waiting in vain for the bus to arrive. And so, after a few minutes, I am driven along the wet, winding road by a very friendly, if still somewhat sleepy, driver. It leads along forests, with trees dripping with rain to the right and left, and there is the Camino, right along the side of the road. Who wants to do something like that?
Back on track
Just to be clear, my leg feels just as bad as it did yesterday, but my stubbornness won't allow me to lie on my back any longer, so let's get on with it! It won't get that bad after all. The eternal arguments of the hopeless optimists!
The cab driver drops me off in front of a restaurant. A few early risers are gathered around the bar, giving me pitying looks. I can probably be recognized from afar as one of those lunatics who dare to set off in this shitty weather. The sympathy goes so far that the landlord offers me a free sandwich.
But then, guys, I can hardly wait, I wolf down my bread roll and coffee and ... I'm on my way. Oh God, how I've missed it.
The rain, which has paused for a short time, waits just long enough for me to find the way between the houses, then rushes off, as if it had to show me once again that I am completely in its hands.
The Gronze platform says about the stage:
A long stage with beautiful landscapes and considerable climbs. Like yesterday, the camino leads through rural areas and mountains to Vilar de Barrio, with a steep climb (425 m) from Tamicelas to Cruz do Alto do Talariño (965 m), past Alberguería; It continues from Vilar de Barrio to Bobadela through an agricultural plain, and from Bobadela to the end of the stage it continues hrough bushland.
Well, it might have been like that, if it wasn't otherwise. Another one of those philosophical comments that must have sprung out of my tired brain. It's about time I returned to calmer waters.
Horréos
I really am in the middle of Galicia now. But it's not just the constant rain that proves where I am at every step, but the typical Galician villages. With, for example, the Hórreos, which are located next to almost every house. They are traditional storage facilities for crops (e.g. corn).
They are usually made of stone and serve as a defense against voracious mice, which cannot reach the food they crave for.
The smaller hórreos were usually used by just one or two families; the larger examples were usually village community storage facilities.
Well-being
It's just other hikers on the Camino who can understand how happy I feel again. Of course it's still raining, but that doesn't bother me, it's simply part of the experience here. In one of the rainiest regions in Europe, so it can't be any other way. The paths are wet and sometimes boggy, you jump over ditches, you make detours around deep puddles where the water collects and quietly gurgles away.
The sky brightens every few moments, a brief greeting from the sun, which is making itself scarce, then the rain bursts cheerfully down again. It's not even worth taking off the rain poncho, it's part of the etiquette today.
But one thing is clear, this region knows what the Camino means and how it should be honored. They are no longer just mundane arrows pointing in the right direction, no, they are works of art, like this stone covered with shells.
And of course there are those Santiago crosses that now follow the Camino Sanabrés. We are made aware that we are in the land of St. James, that Santiago is approaching.
Bom Caminho
Not only is it a different region, there is also a different language spoken - Gallego. It is related to Portuguese, not surprising given the geographical proximity. The "Buen Camino" has now become the "Bom Caminho". In the restaurants, you can just hear this warm-sounding idiom to the right and left, no longer the hard, fast, aggressive Spanish.
And new sights have emerged, those of green splendor, of trees and undergrowth where colorful foliage accumulates. The air no longer smells of dust and heat, but of damp and rotting wood.
The roads and alleyways alongside the gray and wet houses are dreary and deserted, you would like to hear voices, laughter, children singing, but there is nothing. And so sometimes I stop, searching in vain for a dry place to sit, until a human being finally appears behind a curtain, but only briefly, and then I'm alone with the rain again.
I missed the long stages more than anything else. Now they're back, at least for a while. And so I follow the dead straight road with awe (it might be the last one) along fields where potatoes are being planted.
But after a while, the path actually climbs up a windswept hill called Cima da Villa, at least the rain has stopped for a moment. The path up resembles a slalom between the still reasonably dry and the boggy sections. But the view over the misty landscape is magnificent and you could almost forget the day's background noise in the form of wetness and cold.
I try more or less desperately not to think about my leg in the hope that it won't hurt anymore. As they say, hope dies last. Because heaven forbid, without painkillers it would be a real ordeal. Eventually, intelligence has to win out over ambition. In my case, a rather unlikely event.
The descent then leads through a dense oak forest down to the plain. An old friend, originally from Galicia, tells me that this landscape is the real Galicia for him. The colorful carpets on the forest floor. The gnarled trees along the path. The ruins of the old houses, gray as old people cowering in the rain.
Well, feelings of home are associated with different ideas.
Xunqueira de Ambia
After this short stage - quite good to get back up to speed - the village with the strange name of Xunqueira de Ambia welcomes me, just over a thousand inhabitants, of course a few Romanesque churches, a central square where roaring mopeds with associated young people gather in the evening.
The streets are dark, even though it is only three in the afternoon. A dog is lying on a chain in front of a house, he is dripping wet. My sympathy for the village diminishes in a matter of seconds.
I am accommodated in a noble manner. I walk through a portal, a little confused at first, and find myself in a long corridor that leads down a staircase to the door to the hotel. It is open, no one to be seen. But on a table, the guest is told where the keys and room are located and is given a warm welcome.
I hardly dare to breathe in the opulence of the rooms. The living room is dominated by a huge table at which 30 people are guaranteed to be able to gather without disputing each other's space (and indeed, in the evening, the very distinguished boss informs me that a big dinner is about to take place and that I need to have dinner in the village).
Cold
The rooms are located on the first floor. I actually feel good, the bed with the colorful blanket gives the impression of comfort, but the temperature in the room doesn't say much about comfort, but rather frosty cold.
In the evening, it gets dark early, I hurry through the rain and look for the only open restaurant in the village. Then, after a more than frugal meal, intended more as a stomach filler than a culinary revelation, back to the hotel, sneaking past the high-born gentlemen at the large table.
One thing is certain - the night is a single block of black cold. Even the warm blankets are not able to beat the cold that is generously spread around the room. In the end, shivering, I am forced to put my trekking pants on in bed so as not to sink completely into a chill. And for the first time, I get the feeling that it's good that the end is near.
Matching song: The Communards - So cold the night (extended version, just like the night)
And here the hike continues… towards the end
