WHEN WALKING

Home to Santiago – Day 74

Vilalba to Baamonde: 22 km

Vilalba has many beautiful sites: a church that is open, an old bit of wall, an old bit of castle, and a Mercadona with a dining area where you can eat your food bought in the shop and even heat it up in a microwave should you need . So I like Vilalba.

I meet Bernard back on the way, and for a while we walk with an Australian couple, discussing names which only sound good in French. Bernard is the obvious first one, and we think of as many others as we can. Gilbert is the name that wins.

Next we meet up with Bernard’s Puerto Ricans, three lovely friends, who are dancing, laughing and feeding their way across the north of Spain. In a small shelter they lay out a whole buffet and insist we eat. I leave with a bag of snacks pushed into the back of my rucksack.

Then for a little while, I walk ahead on my own to get a bit of thinking time, and, to be honest, non-thinking time. The promised storms have yet to appear, although there are clouds gathering, which also speeds up my pace slightly. I stop in a beautiful little pilgrim shelter full of trinkets, which you might want to add to your load. Not long after Bernard catches .

“Thank you for waiting,” he says.

I want to say, “It’s good to see you, but I never wait”.

There’s thunder in the distance, but I say, “The thunder’s that way, we’re going this way.” And I tell Bernard I’ve arranged the weather, so we’ll get there dry. From this I learn the word for witch in French, and, as I’m trying to concept-check and make sure I’ve understood the word used correctly, for all the various attributes of a witch. And yes, yes, I’m a witch nd I now know the words for long nose, warts, and pointy hat. All useful, I’m sure, especially in Galicia.

Anyway, my witching isn’t perfect, as the rain does start as we enter town, but no storms, no hail as predicted. And we only have five minutes of walking in waterproofs before we reach the albergue at Baamonde.

Baamonde is quite a place, or rather, it’s not a place. It has everything and nothing. Baamonde is falling apart. It’s a crossroads with a few houses, and yet it has three bar cafes, two good restaurants, a supermarket, a couple of hotels, and the pilgrim’s hostel. What’s more, amidst all of this collapsing or uninspiring architecture is a beautiful ninth-century church with an equally old massive chestnut tree just outside.

There’s a coach parked nearby and people milling around. We try to work out who they are: a busload of pilgrims or just tourists. It’s ard to tell.

I grab a picnic lunch dinner with Bernard, which we eat out in the gardens of the albergue, and much to my delight, after many days apart, Ivan appears. I knew he was here. He sends messages. He’s very good for letting you know what’s what when you arrive in a town. And he tells us he’s on the hunt for the keys to the little church. He has the name of the old lady who keeps them and is going to knock on a door near the church and see if it’s her. If it’s not, he says, they’ll definitely know her.

While we’re waiting, we go to another one of the three bars in the village. To my great delight, Gregor and Lasse, the German father and son, who had beckoned me over for a beer in Abadín are there too. I get to spend a little more time with them after all, and meet their lovely Canadian friend Margoz. But before we finish our beers, Ivan gets the call, that the lady is at the church already with the key. The beers are duly .

“It’s okay,” says Ivan, when Bernard gesticulates that I should slow down. “She’s English. That’s how they do it all the time”

In the church, there’s a whole group of pilgrims, who Ivan has gathered together. Whoever he’s walking with, he becomes the de facto guide.

We sit together in the church. Lasse comes and sits next to me and tells me how he’s just completing his apprenticeship to be a carpenter. This is so wonderful, I try and express my admiration. I’m also secretly thinking, of all the jobs could do in my flat. But he’s a German carpenter. I doubt I can stretch to that.

He’s also been doing Caminos for the last eight years with his dad, sometimes his brother too. He’s 22 years old. I wonder if this experience is what has made him such an open friendly young man.

Margoz joins us in the churchyard where we all go to admire the tree. The tree has the world’s smallest chapel carved inside it, and carvings all over it. These were created by the bother of Magazita, the lady with the keys to the church, a famous local sculptor, and known, guide Ivan says, even in Catalonia. Baamonde has even more than I thought.

Margoz hugs the tree in delight, and promises he can take one of me doing the same, without my face looking ‘ironic’. As we leave, the illuminations come on, making it more magical than ever. If ever you pass through Baamonde, take time to understand. This place really is somewhere.

After the church, I separate to go to the supermarket to buy some supplies for our remote albergue tomorrow – he British albergue, for which I will be doing a tiny stage just in order to do my duty. I spoke to the woman earlier.

As I’m walking there, I bump into Til, a Swiss pilgrim I’ve never seen before. But he knows me.

“You walked from England?” he said. “Crazy!”

Which I think he means in a good way. But he’s right, hichever.

Back in the albergue, it’s a chatty dinner for the pilgrims who haven’t eaten. Bernard and I sit to one side doing our devoir. Finally he comes over for a heart-to-heart. I tell him I really have no problems to discuss and answer all of his questions quite honestly. Then tells me about what he’s been going through, and I can listen.

And I’m glad I’ve got space for that.