I stopped in the tiny aldea of Barbadello, just as I had last time. On that occasion, I was hot, sore and fed up. I remember lying on the porch of the albergue below flowering wisteria groaning under the weight of hordes of black bees. I wasn't exactly hiding from the pilgrim throng, but I wasn't communing with them either. Two New Zealand women hailed me, asking me if I'd seen the amazing carvings in the church, but I was too depleted even to cross the road. I remember thinking, maybe next time. Little did I know that there would BE a next time. My plan had not been to come this way at all, and yet here I was.
Now for the carvings. They were very old and executed with a frank sort of rural honesty. I paid a euro for the privilege of seeing them. The guidebook told me that there had once been a convent on this site, but that it no longer existed. I had, for once, to beg to differ. If this isn't a medieval ecclesiastical building, I don't know what is.
Once I'd wakened to this theme of revisiting running through this part of the journey, I found it everywhere. The cafe where I'd been struck by homesickness last time, then a struggling startup, was now a going concern! When I got to Portomarin, I got a second chance to see the remains of the medieval town swallowed by the river Mino in the fifties when it was dammed. In 2008, the water level was quite high, and I was disappointed with what the guidebook had built up so. This time, the water was so low that I could see everything.
The medieval bridge looked more sturdy than the modern one, having survived six centuries of use and half a century of inundation.
The old street patterns were still visible, the houses tucked right into the bluffs that lined the bank. A wide road, built on stone footings which ran along the shore, was being used by fourwheelers, suggesting that the water level had been low for some time. There was even a big flat spot on the far bank where I assumed the central plaza and cathedral had been. The cathedral was now up on a hill, having been moved stone by stone to safety.
Leaving Portomarin, there was a terrifyingly rickety bridge which I had crossed in 2008. It made my knees tremble, literally. This time I vowed I would do it without fear. I did pretty well, though I'm pretty sure that bridge was even shakier this time. Some more of the welds had gone on the sheet metal floor, and every now and again I could feel the rusty metal flex under my foot. I was about three quarters of the way across when I saw to my left, a perfectly sturdy modern concrete bridge, ca 1950. I realized that I'd done the hard and scary road twice, both times unnecessarily! I was pretty sure that was supposed to teach me something. Right now I could think of quite a few lessons I could take from this.
Don't follow the yellow arrows blindly
Make your own way
Don't wear blinkers
Take your time
and so on...
And through the magic of Youtube I can share that experience with you. Not my own, but that of some other peregrinos who found it plenty scary too. See the bridge on the far left of the shot? If you should happen to go to Portomarin, take that one! And did I mention that the ruckety bridge is (I kid you not) about 40 feet in the air?
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