Home to Santiago – Day 54
Pomar to Laredo: 17km
I usually write as I walk, but today I am writing in retrospect. Today, the heavy rain made it impossible to stop and record any thoughts while walking. I’m interested to see what happens.
I sleep well in my luxurious tent to the sound of rain on canvas. Then, over breakfast, Edwin and Birgit give me excellent directions to rejoin the path, following a beautiful path, not shown on any app. As they point out, I am enjoying an excellent pilgrim to hospitelero ratio.
I walk out past the inexplicably grand church on the high ground of Pomar and down through the calvary to start my ascent to the hills.
The rain has held off until now, but as we walk up, various pilgrims coming from their scattered sleeping places, the rain starts in heavy bursts. The gaps in between are just long enough to give us a false sense of security and unwisely pack away the waterproofs. We walk in hope.
Slightly out of step with the other pilgrim stages, I meet a new person walking into the first village of Liendo: an American, Deborah, expert hiker and talker. We glide conversationally down to the first café.
I like to sit at the counter in the cafés. It seems to disconcert the regulars. And as I’m sitting perched with my coffee in this one, I see familiar faces arrive. Everyone catches up with everyone in the end.
Happily coinciding with the next downpour, I leave with Alberto and Gabi. I then leave Alberto and Gabi, getting up the hill as far as I can before the next downpour starts. I am a fairweather friend when walking.
For five minutes at the top, I’m granted perfect views down to Laredo, before I start crossing the muddy, rocky paths through the heathland above the cliffs. It rains again with force as I pick my way through, and as I descend to the town, the steep lane has become a stream.
The convent of the Trinity in Laredo is what you hope a convent will be like: smiley nuns, comfortable rooms, dry. In my three-bed room, it’s me, Aya, a Korean surfer girl, and, to my delight, Slovenian Nevis. No mixed dorms here, and a little private bathroom for the three of us.
My siesta from walking is a trip to the laundrette and to the supermarket to pick up my contribution to the communal meal I’ve signed up for. I decide you can’t go wrong with cheese, and as it turns out later, many other pilgrims agree, but my cheese is the best cheese of Arzua, and a surprising find, Wensleydale with cranberries. I also buy dessert, but sadly, that does not make it home.
On arrival back at the convent, I find myself locked out, as the convent is closed for two hours while they prepare dinner and do prayers. So I go with my laundry and my cheese and sit in the church to listen to the rosary, followed by the Mass, by which time the church is unusually full. I am not surprised the nuns are excellent singers and the priest has a flair for performance.
The pilgrim blessing after is like none I’ve had before. The head smiley nun and the dramatic priest look into our eyes and lay hands on our heads for quite some time, as they give us each a personal blessing. After this, the priest happily holds up the emblem of the convent while the head smiley nun explains its symbolisin Spanish.
“Any volunteers to read it in English?” she says.
There is a long pause, and I’m not good at awkward silences, so I step forward and read it in my best churchly voice. I enjoy it a bit too much.
The celebration’s over. I finally get to take my laundry and my cheese back inside.
To fill the time between dinner, I go for a quick drink with Iván. And when we return, we can find no signs of the dining room or the food or anyone else. In a slight panic, we wander around, looking into every room, until finally the head smiley nun opens an unmarked door and we see beyond it a feast has been prepared.
We have pasta, a lot of eggs, and an awful lot of cheese. People name the things they’ve brought. Texan Valentine, who has caught up stages, has bought gazpacho. I discover, to my absolute amazement, that she only turned 19 two days ago. This woman has more about her than many a 60+-year-old I’ve met. Even the occasional 56-year-old.
The nun explains, “As you can see, we prepared the food. Now you, the pilgrims, must clear it all away.” And so we do.
In what is perhaps one of the pleasantest communal activities I’ve been part of, 20 pilgrims try to look useful in a tiny kitchen. Some of us more useful than others. 19-year-old Valentine taking the lead. In this way the new faces start to become familiar and blend in with the old. The nuns know what they’re doing.
The day may have been a wet one, but not a wash out.
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