If you are a people watcher, the buses of Spain are the place to be. As we travelled through the mountains towards Leon, I didn't know where to look; at the sharp and steep limestone peaks on either side, or the life playing out around me.
For their part, the peaks were spectacular. The road we were on more or less followed the route of the Camino del Salvador, which I had mused about following. If the relatively gentle (ha!) Basque hills had done for me, I couldn't imagine walking in this rough, nearly perpendicular country. Well, actually, I could, and it made me sad to have to accept limitations on my adventures.
The indoor scenery was pretty amazing. Without moving my head, I could watch an extended family jollying a small boy of about two along. He did amazingly well for many hours, being dandled, sung to, fed and chatted with. In the seat directly in front of me was a middle aged couple. The man was very attentive to the woman, who looked a bit stand-offish. He was trying very hard to woo her, touching her arm, whispering in her ear, smiling with every ounce of charm he could muster, and showering her with compliments. Boy, I thought, he must really have done something rotten! Gradually, she warmed up to him, and by the time the bus stopped in Ponferrada, they were nuzzling and kissing in a most un-middle aged way. I began to wonder if they were illicit lovers, and not a long time couple. I was pretty surprised when they got off the bus, got their luggage and went in different directions without a backward look. Two possibilities sprang to mind. 1. It WAS an illicit affair, and they were worried about being under surveillance by someone they knew in Ponferrada, or 2. They were total strangers!
From Ponferrada onwards, I was in familiar and beloved territory. The rough mountains gave way to forested hills as the highway cut through mountains and travelled on viaducts alongside high reservoirs. The setting sun lit up the vibrant colours of El Bierzo which I loved so well on my previous walk...orange soil, purple heather, blue hills and gleaming slate. It was like old home week. It was amusing to see again the fancy house in Villafranca where the guard mastiff had surprised the heck out of me by lunging up a couple of metres to try to snag my calf, and to follow myself in memory along the single street in Trabadelo, or remember meeting Riem in the roadside cafe a little further along. Of course I was seeing all of this from the Autovia, so it was tiny, dollhouse memory. We even took a little side trip into Pedrafitta do Cebreiro, on the back side of the huge hill it had taken me half a day to climb three years before. I prefer not to think about how easy it was for the bus to get up there. When we got to Lugo, it was late afternoon; lots of time left to walk about and then find something to eat. I had some difficulty finding the Hotel I had chosen . I must have walked around its block three or four times before I saw it sitting discreetly just where it should be.
It was every bit as charming as it advertised itself to be, and a perfect place to lick my psychic wounds and to see the town. I'd been fascinated by the idea that the walls of the town were nearly 2000 years old ever since I'd heard of it three years before. If I had such a thing as a bucket list, Lugo would be on it.
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