Wednesday May 29, 2019

Combarra to Barrantes, Spain—Day 14; about 26,500 steps

Proverbs 14

v. 10  Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.  It’s true in life and true along the Camino.  People may laugh and talk together on the road but not always share how they’re really feeling.  Some walk with emotional pain, some with physical—and, I’m guessing based on how we feel, the longer we walk, the greater the physical pain.  Joy too belongs to each one individually.  I pause a moment to listen to a chorus of frogs or smell a burst of jasmine or marvel at a lush row of vegetable plants.  I peer through a barred window into a tiny chapel as others hurry by.  I stop alone but in each place is my Jesus, always waiting, smiling back at me.  Thank you, Lord Jesus, that you are ever sweet when life is bitter.  Thank you that in your presence my joy increases.

***********************

When we got back last night, already exhausted for the morrow and knowing we faced a steep climb, we asked the desk clerk if she knew how to arrange to have our backpacks transported to our next stop.  Some pilgrims consider such choices antithetical to the spirit of the Camino, that one has to carry one’s own burden every step of the way to Santiago.  Other pilgrims know that shipping their packs, at least sometimes, is the only way they’re going to make it to Santiago at all.  The desk lady wanted to help but really, using the interrnet and our inadequate Spanish, we could have done it better and quicker.  But arrangements were made.  We were instructed to have our packs downstairs by 8:00 am and so we did; they were gone by the time we finished breakfast in the sunny glassed-in dining room overlooking the bay.

We both planned to carry small collapsible bags for grocery shopping, town walking, laundry and just in case we shipped our packs, but Maurice emptied his pack and does not have his bag.  It is probably on the floor at home; he does not use a checklist when he packs.  So we started our walk this morning at the Chinese shop across the street, which opened at nine.  Chinese shops are sort of like dollar stores, selling all sorts of miscellany one might need for living and walking.  I got a tacky little black bag with SPORT written in giant white letters across it for me to carry my ipad (since I didn’t want to leave it in Maurice’s pack) and let Maurice carry most everything else we might need for the day in the bag I brought with me. 

Next stop was the Froiz for some electrolyte-rich Powerade.  Maurice wanted me to bring a tiny bottle of electrolyte additive on our walk but instead I accidentally bought Great Value flavor drops, toting two heavy bottles until I abandoned them in an albergue kitchen.  A few days ago we found a grocery store big enough to carry Powerade (blue only).  Maurice pours it in his water bottle, fills it to the top with water and we share it all morning.  Maurice says he feels much better.  I feel about the same:  stiff, achey and wondering if it’s naptime yet.

Finally about 9:30 we were on our way up through the village lit by the morning sun, past horreos, cruceiros and neatly tended gardens, past cars squeezed into turns of lanes and oddly-shaped garages, and finally onto broad shaded woodland paths and up to a mirador that gave us a view down the mountain and back to yesterday’s walk. 

At the top the path skirted the flank of the mountain, the guidebook said; skirted and continued going straight up is the part it left out.  Just past the real top an optional rocky path off to the side went higher still—to petroglyphs, said a sign.  Of course we wanted to see them (well, one of us did)!  So we climbed up higher.

The trail down started broad and gentle in a pleasant breeze, then turned rough, then became a tricky descent on rocks and running water, and I slipped—immediate pain but no lasting damage. 

Soon we were at the Armenteira monastery, taking a look at its dark and somber church and ambling through its bright cloister, before stopping at a cafe for drinks and the accompanying crunchy corn snack, of which I ate the whole thing.  “You’re not supposed to eat it all,” said Maurice.  “Then why would they put it out?” said I.  I needed sustenance to heal.

The rest of the day we followed the truly delightful ruta da pedra e da auga, a mostly wide forest path by an extremely cheerful stream cascading over rocks for miles, the loudest stream he’s ever heard, said Maurice.  All along its length stood dozens of ruined mills, mill races and sluices, all in stone, with some roofless buildings still containing millstones. 

Waterfalls and birdsong addded to the charm, as did a couple pairs of sparkling sapphire dragonflies.  Delightful.

At 3:40 we arrived at the little rural hotel Os Castaños in Barrantes, where we had a nice old-fashioned room with one entire wall of stone on the third floor.  A door opened to a six-inch deep balcony and railing where we quickly strung the clothesline and set laundry to drying. 

Once again I was exhausted.  The members of our Casa Fernanda Whatsapp group have one by one finished their Caminos and posted happy pictures of themselves in front of the cathedral.  Me, I’ve crashed on the bed with my peeling sunburn from the first day.  (A couple days out of Porto pilgrims even without their gear were easy to spot—the backs of their legs were sunburned from knee to sock line, the right more than the left, a result of mornings spent walking north.)

Dinner was available in the restaurant downstairs from 8:30 and we were the first ones there.  There was no specially priced pilgrim menu.  The new Spiritual Variant of the Caminho Portugués seems to have less pilgrim support than the main route, though Ronna mentioned from Lisbon to Porto she found complete indifference to pilgrims.  But our dinner choices were reasonably priced and turned out fine:  breaded veal for Maurice and roast ham-that-was-really-just-regular-pork for me, French fries and, the real winner, Padrón peppers. 

The little green gems are roasted, piled onto a plate and sprinkled with oversized grains of salt.  Supposedly every twentieth or so pepper is hot, making each mouthful a roll of the dice, but none of ours were a spicy surprise.  A pitcher of the house vino tinto, fruity olive oil topped with grains of salt to dip the rest of the bread for my first dessert, a piece of okay grandmother’s cake to share for the second dessert, and we fell into bed fat and happy after 10:30 with the cobalt summer sky fading to indigo.