WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 72

Vilela to Mondoñedo: 30km

“Are you going to the restaurant for breakfast?” ask Bernard.

“No,” I sa. “I’ve looked on Google Maps and it’s closed until one o’clock.”

“Yes, but have you just gone round the corner and had a look?”

“No,” I admit. “I have not.”

It turns out, although the place looks as closed as it could be, when I try the door, I can go straight in, and there is the owner sitting, waiting behind the counter, and coffee and a is served.

The rain stops and starts, but when it starts, it starts in bucketloads. Bernard and I, hoods up, hoods down, raincoats on, raincoats off, trudge the first part of the journey, enjoying the mist rising from the hills during the dry patches, looking down and searching for shelter under Galician granaries, barns, and bus stop when the rain is at its worst.

A sign appears for the “Temptation of the Camino”, telling us in 1.8 kilometres there will be coffee and cake. This keeps us going. We storm uphill, but of course, when we got there, as I think deep down we always knew, the place is closed. The woman is having problems with her pregnancy, apparently, and putting that first. Of course, of course, I know that’s a very good reason. I just don’t feel like a very nice person at this point.

I finish reading the notice and the heavens open again. But four kilometres further on, there is a bar, and when we get there, everyone we know is waiting. Sarah from New Orleans, Serge, and with a good jó napot kívánok, there also is Márkus, the giant, smiling benignly as always.

I think this is the last time I’ll see Márkus. I’ve decided to walk on beyond my planned stop today in an attempt to outwit the storms predicted in two days’ time. I’m sad about this, but it is the longest period I’ve ever got to walk with a Hungarian on the Camino. In fact, it has been a very Hungarian few days, chatting with Márkus during the day, and reading a former Budapest student of mine’s outrageous account of his own Camino in the evenings. If you’ve had enough of my endless musings and rock shots, I highly recommend George O. Anthony’s very different account of the Camino experience.

Sarah from New Orleans is having a difficult day. She misses her mum. I think she’s having a tough time walking alone. I tell her I’m old enough to be her mum, so I’ll give her a hug in her place, and I do , voluntarily. What is becoming of me?

From now on, I’m walking with Serge and Bernard. When we reach the village I’m meant to be staying, Vilanova de , we stop to enjoy the festival. It’s the Festival of the Bean. Women try to persuade us to eat bean soup. I spend a lot of money on a herbal cream.

We also dance a little with the locals in front of a wonderfully cheerful and energetic Argentinian band, undaunted by the rain. Serge is wearing his poncho. I get him to do a little curtsy as I bow, and I spin him around to the music. I believe all retired businessmen should be treated thus.

I don’t stay in Lourenza. I walk the next two hours over one more mountain. It’s quite relaxing. Serge and Bernard have each other, and I can join in with the occasional joke, or go on ahead, or hang back when I need to. It’s company when you want .Spanish has completely disappeared from my head now. It’s a mixture of Hungarian and French as I walk further into Galicia.

When we reach Mondoñedo late, Bernard goes off with Serge to stay in his fancy albergue, and to try and buy a bunch of the grapes we’ve tasted and been completely blown away by on the way. I remind him not all the grapes here are that good, only the ones that we stole.

I walk through the town, across a beautiful cathedral square in full . Mondoñedo is still an episcopal seat, although now barely more than a large village. And it’s still grand: cathedral, churches, convents, seminaries, a beautiful square surrounded by cake shops and cafés. I bypass them regretfully, in the hope I can get to the albergue and then dash down for the pilgrim’s mass in the cathedral for 6:30. Of course, this won’t happen.

When I arrive at the albergue, the reception has no one there. I speak to a young man in the kitchen who tells me the hospitalero has gone home. So I call the number for Roberto on the door.

“I’ll be with you in half an hour,” he says. “Just choose a bed.”

I do, and then Roberto comes. I have a last treat of the day, meeting Roberto in a waistcoat, very dapper. He’s just been out for half an hour to move furniture while it was quiet. He complains of the unusual heat. He also tells me about his wish to go mudlarking in London, shows me his favourite YouTube channel, and tells me about the amazing historical finds he’s found in his back garden. Apparently, it’s illegal to dig in historic Mondoñedo, even to put down pipes outside your house. So everyone digs at midnight, and when he finds relics, he sends them anonymously to the museum.

“I found a medieval pilgrim memento,” he said, “made of…” and tries to describe the black mineral. He finally comes up with “Your Queen Victoria made it popular”. And so we work out: the mineral is jet.

He gives me a stamp of molten wax with the original medieval seal. “I have another,” he sa “but that was for the Inquisition.”It’s just like today. You can get your stamp from the municipal, from the cathedral, or from the police. I’ve given you the cathedral one.I take a photo of the other, with a little regret.

Up in the dormitory, I meet my friend from the kitchen once more, Jinse, from Korea. Although he asks me to guess first, and of course I guess Japanese.

But it’s only wishful thinking. Not that I have anything against Koreans. Some of my best walking buddies have been Korean, but I really need to practise Japanese. And also, I was hoping to find someone who could help me with my Japan accommodation telephone bookings.

Never mind. But we do talk. “I grew up by the seaside,” he said, “but then I moved to the capital to work.”

It turns out we have a lot in common. And he also turns out to be very useful, because, even though he can’t help me with my Japanese, he has stolen the heater from the upstairs  to dry his clothes.

And he does turn out to be very useful because, even though he can’t help me with my Japanese, he has stolen the heater from upstairs to dry all of his clothes.

And he does turn out to be very useful because, even though he can’t help me with my Japanese, he has stolen the heater from upstairs to dry all of his clothes.

One thing we don’t have in common is that he started a town before me this morning and arrived here five hours earlier. But his supposedly waterproof shoes are not waterproof, and he has been drying out all his clothes ever since he arrived.

I take the opportunity to make sure I have one dry pair of socks for tomorrow and to congratulate myself on my excellent waterproof ASICS Trabuco GTX, and to curse ASICS for supposedly upgrading the model to something I can no longer wear. Dear ASICS, if ever you read this, please feel free to sponsor me, especially if you bring your old-style Trabucos back.

As I’m about to sleep, the phone rings, and an excited Bernardo is calling from his fancy albergue. He’s with Betty the dutch pilgrim from two days . I don’t know how he knows I’d be excited about Betty, but I am.

“We’ll meet you tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll give you a call.”

I get a feeling my early start has been scuppered.