The journey is coming to an end increasingly quickly. There's something in the air that's hard to grasp. A sense of farewell? The days are getting shorter, the light seems to be fading, appearing later in the morning and leaving early in the evening.
These are the days in fall as we know them. There is something sad, you can feel it in your bones, something dark is spreading. But it's probably not just the announcement of autumn, it's the approaching end of the Camino. Supposedly many hundreds of kilometers away, but already palpable.
Melancholy? Not on this morning.
Killing in the name of
At the "Albergue de Peregrinos de Santa Marta de Tera" hostel, hell breaks loose early - who would have expected otherwise. Someone is talking loudly to a business partner in the hallway at half past six in the morning - it must be something extremely important. Idiot!
However, our young ladies are still sound asleep until a guest turns on the light in our room and so the girls wake up from their girlish dreams, look around rather distraught ... and sink back into sleep.
But since I'm already awake and don't feel like gathering my belongings in the dark, I for once play the pious pilgrim who gets up at the crack of dawn and starts making noise.
I think “Killing in the Name of” by Rage against the Machine should do the trick to drive away the last of the sleep. And hey, it works. This is my revenge for all those nights spent in those damn hostels.
Four heads snap up, surprised looks, including a few angry and grim ones.
Lo siento, senoritas!
From Santa Marta to Rionegro del Puente
As there is no bar or anything similar open at this most ungodly hour, I am once again grudgingly forced to eat my breakfast in the form of hard bread, melted chocolate and ice-cold water as a substitute for a hot coffee.
There is no pleasure involved, it's just food intake for the purpose of energy supply, which is not how a day should really start.
The Night and the Darkness
Yes, and then, almost a tradition, I once again plunge into darkness. A lone lamp sheds some poor light, just enough to make out the road, but after a few meters it slips into the blackness of the night.
Somewhere (in “ZEIT”?) there are a lot of nice things to read about the night:
"The night has us all in its grip. People are different in the dark than they are during the day. They undergo a metamorphosis. Their bodies, their organs, their feelings and thoughts are different than during the day. After sunset, Homo Sapiens transforms into a being whose rational powers fade and whose world of the soul opens wide."
A big thank you to the unknown creator of these wonderful insights.
The Rio Tera
There is a chalky smell of rain in the air. The end of the long hot days? Clouds with snow-white contours pile up in the slate gray sky; the weather really does seem to be up to something.
The path leads for a while along the river Tera, which serves as an epithet for many villages. So it's not Terra, as you might mistakenly think. It's a long, relatively unspectacular stage, there's little to see, so I concentrate on the next step, the spirit miles away, wherever it may be.
It's strange that a peculiar sense of relaxation always sets in after the first few meters. The body knows what to expect, the mind is still a little behind, but it will catch up. Just like any other day.
The Gronze stages don't always match mine. My stage for today only leads to Rionegro del Puente, no idea what the Gronze people were thinking. 36 km? Without a good reason?
Dark sky, black river
As mentioned, the weather god seems to be giving us a first warning that he's willing to show us who's boss. So I walk along, almost somewhat dejected, under the looming clouds, with the river on my left, just as dark as the sky, then straight ahead again, just as we know it.
I am overtaken from time to time, nothing new there, we nod to each other and walk on without saying a word. Another wise saying is appropriate: "The young ones are faster, the old ones know the shortcuts."
That would be nice.
Bread and spirit
Emmanuel, the French guy I met in Tabara, points out while overtaking me that there is a bar a good kilometer away in Calzada de Tera that is miraculously open. We go for it, even if it means a detour.
The restaurant handles the distribution of the bread at the same time. The supplier brings the fresh bread in the morning and the residents pick up their rations throughout the day.
The somewhat shy innkeeper (a notable exception in self-confident Spain) hesitantly sells me a piece of bread, but has to check his list beforehand so that no one is left out.
The wind picks up in the afternoon and it starts to drizzle. So be it! I put on the rucksack cover and once again try unsuccessfully to put on the rain poncho. There must be a way to put on a rain poncho without anyone having to help. I have to think about it, as there's plenty of time.
Thank God the rain is clearing, apparently just a prelude. At the Embalse de Agavanzal, I cross the dam while the hurricane-like storm blows around my ears and I desperately try to keep my hat from flying off into the lake.
More and more ruins
It is noticeable that the ruins become more frequent along the way. This stage gives a first impression of what to expect in Galicia. The villages suffer from emigration, resulting in entire hamlets being abandoned, the houses left behind are empty and slowly decaying, while churches with their typical steeples stand in the middle, a kind of last bastion against decay and oblivion.
These abandoned, ancient mud houses, stables and huts exude something sad. It is difficult to understand why, of all places, between Mombuey and Asturianos, the depopulation and decay are so visible. You instinctively walk faster, as if you wanted to escape this dreary loneliness as quickly as possible.
A very strange missionary
In a tiny town called Vilar de Farfon with probably about 2.5 inhabitants, a special surprise awaits us. It's a hostel called The Pilgrim Mission.
To put it somewhat euphemistically, it is a kind of restaurant, consisting of a single table and a few chairs, and something like a place to stay overnight hidden somewhere. The landlord is a rather English-looking man in his 60s and turns out to be a South African who has apparently been a missionary all his life.
He talks about Zambia, Varanassi, where he and his wife worked as missionaries for five years, the Himalayas and other places where it is not immediately obvious that his missionary work might have met with a great response.
But the more he talks, the more he turns out to be an annoying conspiracy theorist. Climate change? Wonderful, the earth is turning green. Covid - all invention. Migration - planned. Reason: people don't have enough children.
His discourse without periods and commas, especially without any sense, becomes too much eventually. I can't help but call him a conspiracy theorist and that he is saying a lot of stupid stuff. Which doesn't stop him from trying to prove (!) to me that Jesus lived and rose from the dead.
It's always surprising what strange characters you might come across on the Camino. But the fact that there are also missionaries is somewhat unexpected.
Me gusta comer,
The journey continues up and down, mine and Emmanuel's paths meet again and again, then we lose sight of each other again. The young man is a few years younger. The path follows the lake, then a few more climbs, and then finally Rionegro, where not only a special hostel is awaiting us, but also a truly festive meal.
Dinner in the adjacent restaurant is a rarity on the Camino, something that definitely shouldn't be missed. I'm there with Cordula and Henning, Emmanuel is also sitting at another table.
This is not just a normal meal, no, it is a dinner of the highest class, of exquisite quality, prepared by a master of culinary art.
There is a kind of cooking club in the village called Me gusta comer, offering its guests a multi-course menu every evening. The host, who is also the Chef, a fierce-looking gentleman in his prime, approaches the table and we remain reverently silent while he explains today's menu. Of course we agree to everything.
And it simply cannot be repeated often enough - I haven't eaten this well for a very long time. After the starter, the composition of which I have forgotten but which tastes incomparable, the main course is served, equally delicious, accompanied by exquisite wine and finally a dessert for the gods.
I almost dare not say how much it costs. 15 euros per person. I think that a comparable menu in Zurich, even if probably not prepared by the chef himself, costs at least a three-digit amount in Swiss francs.
The ways of the Lord are truly inscrutable.
And just one more thing - this hostel is for once an example of how it might be. Spacious rooms, superbly renovated, with a kitchen and several bathrooms, and the beds are so far apart from each other that even the worst snoring sounds like a distant thunderstorm.
From Rionegro del Puente to Asturianos
In the early morning, fog lies over the fields, creeping into the throat, fighting against the twilight. Lights blink in the distance, faint and barely visible. It has become chilly, it's fall. Is that it?
If I had known that today was going to be the last sunny day, I might have stopped more often, enjoyed the heat one last time to the full, applied the sun cream carefully, because from today onwards it stays in the bag.
But you just don't know, so you scare the weather forecast out of your thoughts.
“It probably won’t be that bad.”
Well, that's probably the peculiar influence of faith on human existence.
After all, the night in the hostel rewarded me with a long, deep sleep. Emmanuel, who I now meet again and again, turns out to be a hostel manager on the Stevensonweg in France, perhaps an idea for a future hike.
Coffee and a moon rocket
And again I have to correct the stupid Gronze stage, my own runs from Rionegro via Mombuey to Asturianos and not a step further. But the stage is again long and flat and just as monotonous as many before it.
Mombuey can be reached quickly, so breakfast in the next restaurant. Just the smell of fresh coffee drives away the last bit of tiredness. The blue sky has taken over the scepter, the last gasp before final defeat?
The village not only offers good coffee and sweet rolls, but also a very unique church. Your tower is reminiscent of... well, what? Maybe a moon rocket, but maybe something completely different. But let's leave that alone.
Well, there isn't much to say about this town with a name that evokes size and importance. But sometimes the world is a twisted one. But there are large cities with thousands of inhabitants with modest, almost submissive names like Homel (Belarus), Jilin (China) or Kinki (Japan).
Yes, when you have time like on the Camino, such strange thoughts arise. Names are nothing but smoke and mirrors, as we have known for a long time...
An older gentleman on a stone
The paths are as usual, long and beautiful and hot, as I love it. I feel invincible, already over 750 kilometers behind me, the rest a piece of cake.
And so the sprightly old man thinks it's time to capture the heroic moment. He takes a pose, puts a mocking, almost arrogant grin around the corners of his mouth and waits for Emmanuel, his photographer.
Of course, one could justifiably describe the whole thing as the infamous pride before the fall.
Because the fall follows on the heels, so to speak, in my case on my right shin. No sooner am I back on the path than it starts to hurt. I think it's a temporary problem, but the pain remains and becomes more intense.
This moment means the end of my carefree hiking, I just don't know it yet.
Wild wildlife
Of course I have read about the abundant wildlife in these areas, but with the exception of pigs and sheep and cows and goats, the wild animals hide from the eyes of the hiker.
That's why it's not just a pleasure, but a real surprise when a herd of deer (or are they roe deer?) suddenly leap across the path and disappear between the trees. As a lone hiker, you rarely have the opportunity to encounter a creature that doesn't just rush past you, backpacking and panting, but crosses your path a little more elegantly and wildly.
Metallica and a church bell
Today is one of those days where I get bored at times and need some cheering up. Plus, my stupid shin really hurts now. A few heavy metal sounds seem to be just the right thing for me. I look around to make sure I'm completely alone and fire up my iPhone.
And so the sacred silence of the landscape is shattered by the songs of Metallica and Nine Inch Nails and Queens of the Stone Age. I apologize to all the frightened frogs along the way and vow to get better.
Keep on rocking, man!
In Entrepeñas, the last village before Asturianos, I once again meet Emmanuel, who is taking a break in the shadow of the local church. I sit down next to him like an old married couple, mostly silent and relaxed.
Strangely enough, there is a rope with colored pennants hanging down from the church tower, begging to be pulled. And so Emmanuel organizes an afternoon bell ringing at four o'clock that calls for prayer. I wouldn't be surprised if a few pious citizens showed up for mass soon.
And indeed, after a few minutes an old woman steps out of a house, but she laughs loudly at the prank and offers us some grapes.
Periostitis
Unsurprisingly, there is little to report about Asturianos except that the hostel is located in the annex of a sports hall with an adjoining bar. It is also located overlooking the village, so you have the opportunity to get to know the village's local dignitaries on the way there. But apart from the odd glimpse from a balcony, interest is limited.
A horned animal with a suspicious look greets every arrival, perhaps carrying out the first check on suitability for an overnight stay.
The bar is open, the initial check of my shin shows something unpleasant. It is quite swollen, painful and feels hot. Emmanuel brings into play an expression that is new to me: Periostitis or in German periosteum inflammation.
Ouch! An inflammation of the periosteum? The lady at the bar nods in agreement, fetches some ice and presses it onto my leg as I desperately try to maintain my innate optimism.
I later find out what has caused the problems. It is, of course, the Achilles tendon in my right heel, which has been making itself felt for quite a long time. [Insert: now, over three months into writing this blog, I'm still struggling with the damn Achilles tendon, and everyone in the know claims the pain lasts for months. Fuck!]
The evening is a bit depressing, Cordula and Henning try their best to brighten my subdued mood, but they only partially succeed at this.
Returning from the restaurant, the door to the hostel is already closed, but at least the bar next door is still open. I through in another Ibuprofen and hope for a speedy recovery.
From Asturianos to Puebla de Sanabria
In the morning, of course, apart from me and Emmanuel, everyone else has long been gone. Once again cold water, hard bread and chocolate for breakfast. This is really starting to get to me.
The leg feels okay, but that could also be due to the medication. Anyway, I have to manage 16 kilometers. The weather matches my mood and has turned gloom. I put on long pants with gaiters.
And then there it is, the rain
After a good hour, in Palacios de Sanabria, finally a café, everyone is there, gathered at the bar, Emmanuel, Cordula and Henning. In fact, I am aware that my current condition is only due to the strong medication.
The path leads through forests, then along the road again for a long time. A short time later it starts to drizzle, so here it is, the long-awaited rain. Whether it will turn out to be a blessing after all these hot days remains to be seen.
It's only been a few hours since the intense heat, the midday sleepiness, the feeling of being burned alive. And the longing for cooling down, for cool breezes, for a warm blanket over your ears to drive away the nighttime cold.
And now the longing has come true, but it reminds me of an old wise saying: Be careful with your wishes, they might come true.
A new feeling
Even though it's still more of a light drizzle, I don't take any risks and put the poncho on.
In the meantime, I have come up with an ingenious method to solve the poncho problem: you take off the rucksack, pull the poncho over the rucksack from behind and roll up the front part. Then you put the rucksack on and pull the rolled-up part of the poncho over your head at the front.It takes a little practice, but it works perfectly the second time.
Of course, the gloomy churches are just as much a part of the path as the castle-like buildings, whose history and purpose are unclear. After all these days and weeks, they have lost all appeal, and so you walk past them carelessly, your gaze on the path becoming increasingly boggy.
Puebla de Sanabria
It starts to rain harder, but I feel comfortable and safe in my rain gear. The landscape is now greener than ever before, actually nice to hike. But that doesn't stop me from missing the path again after a good 10 kilometers.
Since the effect of the medication is wearing off and the pain is getting worse, I decide to follow the road for the rest of the stage to Puebla de Sanabria. I'm slowly realizing that I have a bigger problem.
The last kilometers run under pouring rain. It has become dark, the sky is blacker than ever, a feeling of doom and gloom. Far in front of me I see Cordula and Henning crossing the street; their gait also shows that they are anything but happy.
The city is covered in a gray cloak, the streets are soaking wet, the houses are silent, you can hardly hear a sound apart from the occasional engine noise. It's Sunday, and in this nasty weather people rather stay in the warm room.
The hotel landlord is already waiting for me and leads me to my room. In the evening I struggle up to the city center, which is situated a little above, eat dinner with Cordula and Henning, then I limp back to the hotel in the dark city with a sore leg.
It seems like I desperately need a plan B.
Matching song: Rage against the Machine – Killing in the Name of
And here does the Camino continue (maybe)... no idea where
