I was in Europe for weddings in England and France. I had visited New Zealand battlefields in south west Belgium and north east France then driven myself around the major north western Spanish cathedral towns in late June. On the last two days I had seen many pilgrims (as I came to know them) setting off early each morning. Having done some preparation before leaving home I decided to join them for six or seven days from Sarria. I had 112 km to walk.
In my rush to drop my hire car and catch the bus to Lugo I thought I had pulled some right calf muscles: it was extremely painful when walking.
In Sarria I found a backpackers (called albergue - pronounced albergi) and soon felt quite a home in the 30 bed dorm: not unlike a tramping hut from the Tararua range of home, except bigger and far more comfortable - there was a real mattress on the individual bed. I chatted with a soft spoken american who had been on the way with three others for 28 days and planned to complete in 4 more days: turned out his sister had been to New Zealand. Mass that night in the historic parish church just down the road.
That was the last Sunday in June 2010.
Monday morning: one of the first of my dorm out and away quite soon after sunrise. Didn't I feel as though I was in the swing of things. There were a few others out and about and after 200 hundred metres I couldn't see any yellow markers, or pilgrims. I circled around to the right through the built up area, losing about 15 minutes, until I was back on the road in front of my albergue again.
Turns out I should have done a hard left instead of going ahead: a valuable lesson in way finding learnt quickly and without great cost.
This day was 23 km: 3 km along the river valley then rising 250 metres over 8 km, another 8 km along a relatively flat path through farm hamlets and with quite a sharp descent into Portomarin on a badly water scoured dirt track.
I had been going about an hour and was on the ascent when my four Americans from the night before appeared to be running past with a hello, goodbyeeeeee into the distance. I felt comfortable if a little slow. My injury from the Sunday was obvious to others: one couple stopped and offerred their wooden staff and a woman from Dublin offerred strong diclofenac tablets. A personal highlight occurred early afternoon: I had started the descent when, turning a corner, there was an archway entrance to a large house beyond right in front of me. There were a large number of national flags around the archway as bunting: pride of place and streched across the archway was the New Zealand flag. Thinking this was not accidental I went and sat down under the archway. After a few moments I was talking with a wmon from Tauranga: she and her South African partner were preparing the house as an albergue for the next season. I left with three bananas and two water bottles as no charge from the stock she was selling to others.
Crossing the bridge over the man made lake towards Portomarin showed I was not fit. And I had been walking for more than 8 hours. Or about 3 km per hour. And my feet hurt. I knew from my drive past early Sunday morning there were quite a few albergue in the township up the hill. My energy now limited me to a commercial backpackers close to the main road.
I would wait till the morning to see if I would continue.
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