I'd been so lucky with the weather. The rain in Spain stayed mainly off the trail when I was on it. But in Galicia, (which any Galician will tell you is not really Spain), all weather bets were off.
I was finding it hard going on this day; the pack felt heavy; leaden like the weather. The wet woods were beautiful though; the moisture saturating the greens to impossibly rich levels, and silvering the backs of the sodden cattle when the sun hit them. It was still magic, but with a sense of foreboding thrown in.
After seventeen km, and no sign of the weather letting up, I decided to call it quits in Arzua. I wasn't alone. Here's an excerpt from an email home: It was entitled "The Rain makes Cowards of Us All"
The albergues here in Arzua are packed, and have been since they opened at noon. We´re all hiding from the rain, and stalking around like stiff legged cats with nothing to do. Everyone is limping or rubbing sore muscles. The damp weather (understatement) really takes it out of you. I have washed my clothes, eaten a good lunch which included green beans (woohoo! Vegetables!) and am now having a Colacao ( a kind of hot chocolate) and waiting for it to be tomorrow.
Arzua itself was nothing to write home about. When the press of humanity got too much in the albergue, I went looking for the old town amongst the white brick monstrosities of the main street, but I found it not. I did find the market, distinguished by the vast size of its pulpo stalls. There were two giant canvas tents full of tables full of people who were, by late afternoon, full of pulpo. The best part of town was the street where I was staying in a converted medieval convent.
It was here that met yet another Canadian, a redheaded new age gypsy, who was wandering the world in a pair of Converse knockoffs. We chatted a bit while resting on our bunks. Her name was Tamara, and she was following her muse, which told her that she'd be writing six books on healing. (She'd already written the first three, and had had the first one published, so I guess her muse knew what she was talking about). Like me, she was feeling the heavy energy of the day and had stopped early to rest. Unlike me, (except on the downhills) she was walking the Camino in reverse. She'd started in Santiago and was on her way over the Primitivo to Oviedo. We shared a washing machine, and I tried to give her some of my larpeira, only to discover that she was gluten-sensitive. In the end, she gave me some crackers she had bought, which didn't agree with her. She had virtually no money, so I paid her for them. I also tore out the section from my guidebook which linked Arzua with the Primitivo for her. I wouldn't be needing it.
Internet access and food were my two greatest needs wherever I went, and today was no different. The first bar was full of angry looking guys in their undershirts. Their internet had been knocked out the by thunderstorm earlier in the day so there was no incentive to stay there! Bar Number Two had internet, but the computer keyboard was missing a few keys and the remaining ones were sticky with spilled coca-cola. Bar Number Three had no internet, but I had a delicious lunch there. Bar Four had internet, which was exorbitantly expensive, but pilgrims can't be choosers, so I stayed there. On my tour, I saw a statue which expressed Galician fortitude very well; a giant lemon; and another convex mirror opportunity, which I took.
And then it was back to the room, full of German priests in their underwear, and orderly Japanese extended families, and snoring Slovenians; and then it was suppertime.
In Bar Number Three I tried to translate the menu for a pair of German women who were highly incensed that the menu was only in Spanish and English. If they'd been able to understand me, I could have told them that it wasn't really in English either!
I was just settling in to decide what I would eat when the Americans arrived. Luckily, one of them had brought her camera so I can show that menu to you. We had quite a laugh about it. We had quite a laugh about dinner too. Our espagettis with tomato sauce, instead of being a riot of rich Meditteranean flavour, was bland, cut-up spaghetti in what looked like diluted tomato juice. The fruit salad I looked forward to came from a can, and I didn't even get a cherry! It was like a nursery dinner; except that five year olds don't usually down a bottle of Alabarino with supper.
My evening was spent re-reading my journal from start to finish, and talking to Tamara. The night seemed to come down early because of the weather, and snoring and rustling notwithstanding, I was soon out like the lights.
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