9th-century Iglesia de Santa Maria Real, O Cebreiro, with sello

(La Portela de Valcarce to O Cebreiro: 14.8 km, 5 3/4 hours with 1 hr & 40 min breaks; 21,170 steps, plus 1830 later)

Philippians 4:4-9
v. 4-7 Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

“Rejoice in the Lord always!” The joy to be found in our relationship with the Lord is always greater than whatever despairing situation in which we find ourselves. I need to look to that joy instead of the steepness of the rocky path under my feet. I’ll get up it. We pray every day in our pilgrim prayer that Jesus will be for us “a companion on our journey, the guide on our intersections, the strengthening during fatigue….” Will he not answer with his presence, his direction, his strength and his joy? So rejoice! “Let your gentleness be evident to all,” even the careless pilgrims blowing smoke in my direction at the tables outside the bar. “Do not be anxious about anything,” not lung damage from the smoke, not two beds for the night, not even whether the laundry will dry. I just need to discuss it with the Lord, thankfully remembering all he’s already done for us. As we wait for answers, even answers we might not expect, he brings us peace. Thank you, Jesus, for your joy even in the difficulties and irritations of life.

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We slept fine, but the bar was not open at seven as the barkeep had told Maurice it would be. Since the day’s path was to be so steep, we had decided to send our packs ahead and weren’t sure where to put them. We were also supposed to call to confirm our hotel in O Cebreiro and we were counting on the barkeep to help us with that. We took our time getting ready and finally left at 8:15, breakfastless once again, with a light in the bar but the door still locked. Maurice called the transport company himself; their English was minimal, his Spanish is nil. They got the message our packs were waiting; they’d find them. As for the hotel–well, Maurice called them too and they didn’t answer but Maurice may have accidentally dialed a number in Iran. Or Singapore. Or both. At least that’s what his phone says.

It wasn’t raining yet. The morning was misty and still dark but the town’s little St. John the Baptist church was open with lights and candles and a sello for our credencials.

In Ambasmestas we stopped in a cozy bar; a sign promoted macaroni with pulpo but we got huevos fritos and bacon (underdone even though I said my phrase). The friendly bar personnel made our phone call but were in no hurry to cook. We took off layers as we waited; it wasn’t raining yet and we wanted to get going.

Trying to catch a glimpse of where we’re going (see the highway above?)

We continued through the valley alongside the gurgling stream and vegetable gardens. We passed a field with big white pumpkins bulging through the greenery. Brown cows stood in grassy pastures. “Do you need a horse?” asked a hand-lettered sign. A lone castle ruin stood on a hazy peak where wisps of gray sky drooped into the mountains. Quiet villages straggled along the road. Someone had corrected many of the directional signs, changing words (adding lots of Xs) into Gallego. The air was filled with cowbells and wood smoke. It was so peaceful.

And then in Las Herrerias the guidebook declared, “Fill up your flask and gird your loins!” It was the much anticipated final assault on the mountain, and we were going up.

We stopped in the last bar for final refreshment. We unzipped our lower pantlegs, packed our jackets (it hadn’t rained yet) and rolled up our shirtsleeves. Then we hiked straight up (or so it seemed) on a difficult dirt and rock path for a half hour with three crazed Spanish cyclists who had decided not to take the recommended asphalt bike route. Whew! We sat on a bench outside a tienda in tiny La Faba for only ten minutes, until Maurice decided too many people (maybe three or four) had gotten ahead of us, then were off again.

A pause in the final assault

A minute or two through town and into the woods and then we started climbing up again, with few level steps, for another thirty-five minutes, until finally we sat for drinks and a small lunch snack at a bar in Laguna de Castilla, the last outpost in Castille.

The border between Castilla y Leon and Galicia

The final fifty minutes up to O Cebreiro were a mostly gentle slope. Just as we were about to turn into the little gray stone town, as we caught a view down into the valley, it started to sprinkle. Thanks, Lord!

Note the highway now far below

Our packs were waiting at Meson Anton. Our double room in the attic was the kind of rustic place we might stay on a normal European trip. It even had heat.

Looking like a giant in our attic room

Maurice, always on the job of getting the laundry dry, sussed out a lavanderia where we could have a whole load of clothes washed and dried (and folded) for 8€.

We walked around the gray stone town in the gray afternoon, admiring the pallozas (round stone buildings) and getting new credencials (our originals were almost full), until the increasing fog made everything indistinguishable.

Pictures above & below of same street scene

After the pilgrim mass in the ninth-century church we had a fine supper in an unheated bar down the street; along with the usual, we had delicious broad beans cooked with ham, before finishing with the moist almond cake torta de Santiago.

Meson Anton, with sello