Church in Paradela

(Barbadelo to Portomarin’: 18.5 km, 6 1/2 hours, 1 hr & 30 min breaks; 27,018 steps, plus 2440 later)

Hebrews 12:14-28
22-23a But you have come to Mount Zion, to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem. You have come to thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly, to the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven….

We’re getting closer. Maurice has studied the map and divided up the remaining distance, and we have evaluated where we might like to stay. We’ve just passed Sarria and pilgrim numbers have noticeably increased. When we get to Santiago there will be hundreds, maybe thousands, of pilgrims crowding into the cathedral for the pilgrim mass. But we won’t just be in the Santiago cathedral. Wherever God’s people gather to worship him in the name of Jesus, they touch the throne of heaven. Our praises rise and we are in “Mount Zion…the city of the living God.” It is not just the pilgrim people worshipping, in Santiago or anywhere else in the world believers gather, but also “thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly” who join their praises with the earthly church and raise their voices in love of the Creator. Hallelujah! Lord, thank you that you made a way for us pilgrims yet on earth to touch heaven.

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Breakfast was expensive and only adequate. We left the room at 8:15, not realizing it was raining. We stood on the porch to put on our rain gear. As soon as we started walking, the rain tapered off and the path went up. We were too warm so we stopped to take off our jackets. Finally we were really on our way, past fields fenced with flat stones on edge, alongside pastures wet and green, through lovely lanes curving through tiny stone hamlets with barns and cows and the typical picturesque granaries elevated on stone pillars to keep the rodents out.

The longer we walked the more pilgrims there seemed to be on the road. After our mid-morning snack we were back on more splendid paths. There were still some fig trees in Galicia but chestnut and apple trees abounded. Big household gardens everywhere were bursting with kale, corn and pumpkins and their relatives; tomatoes and peppers were still producing. Cowherds with long sticks supervised their cows, and sheep baaed in rocky meadows.

Only 100 kilometers to go!

Family dogs have been everywhere along the Camino. Big and small, fenced and free, most of them barely glance at the hundreds of pilgrim strangers passing by their turf, though Maurice wonders how close to them the invisible line is that, if crossed, turns the snoozing puppydog into a snarling and teeth-baring home protector (we do not plan to find out).

In Paradela a man was inviting people into his couryard where tables were piled high with pilgrim refreshments and trinkets. He pulled back the plastic wrap from a bowl overflowing with…doughnut holes? Homemade, sprinkled with sugar and still warm from the oven–I was sold. We went in and I sat down on a rickety chair as he offered us other treats plus hot coffee and cool citrus water. His wife came out with a plate of some kind of meat. Did we want to try the homemade sausage? I accepted a cup of water with an orange slice in it but my heart belonged to the doughnut holes. Just a couple more, then we dropped a donation into his box and moved on.

A souvenir shop emblazoned with brightly painted scallop shells slowed down the passing pilgrim throngs. I bought a buff printed wth authentic Camino sellos. Maurice bought a coke and we sat in the provided plastic chairs along the road to eat some lunch bits. Then we picked up our packs again and continued down country lanes, past the fields and trees and granaries of green Galicia.

Two hours later we were with a group of pilgrims considering a sign offering an alternative but longer route to Portomarin. “Why would we do that?” seemed to be the general consensus. “Look at this part on the map marked ‘difficult pedestrian descent,'” I pointed out, but everyone else had marched on. Well, how hard could it be? We’ve already descended ravines full of boulders on this Camino. Our perfectly normal path continued for a while before narrowing and tilting downward between overgrown stone walls. Then the dirt underfoot disappeared and we were walking on rock, slopes and ledges and humps, a bumpy chute weathered smooth over centuries. Our pace slowed as we picked our way down. The pilgrims around us were having a difficult time, clutching the walls and sliding sideways, but Maurice and I kept moving as we leaned on our trusty Pacer poles which held fast on the rock and lowered us safely down the incline.

Soon we were overlooking the former site of the riverside town of Portomarin. When the river was dammed to create a reservoir in 1962, the Romanesque fortress church of St. John was carefully taken apart and rebuilt in a new town center up the hill (as were several other public buildings). Currently the reservoir was low, so we could see foundations of buildings long since washed away as well as the piers of a Roman bridge.

Portomarin’s modern bridge and an older bridge (the Roman bridge ruins are out of the picture on the left and the medieval bridge has been dismantled); relocated Romanesque church on hill

Old road and foundations that are usually under the waters of the reservoir

We crossed the river on a new bridge and on the other side ascended to town via a steep staircase built of stones from the medieval bridge. At the Pension Manuel we got a perfectly adequate double room with bath across the hall. Out in town we admired the fortress church from the outside (closed, of course) and walked along the pretty arcaded main street.

There was no sign of fresh pastries for breakfast. But a half dozen places had pilgrim menus and, except for the octopus place, any one would do for supper. Maurice picked an Italian place with a combination plate of spaghetti, hamburger, salad and a glass of wine. The waitress was definitely not happy to have customers. I perused the cardboard menu. I did not order the pasta sauced with lard or the ravioli filled with scum. Really. How hard would it be to check translations with a passing native English speaker? And if they got an American, I bet said pilgrim would give bonus instruction on how to cook bacon.