Day 29, July 6th, 2023
After a freshly brewed coffee from the machine in the corridor, Angela and I set off. It's going to be a long and tough day, almost thirty kilometres long with a daunting 1250 meters of elevation gain. At least there are two of us, so we can carry each other if necessary.
The first steep climb of the 'hard way' begins right behind the hostel. At first it is just a small, very steep, narrow road, and I find it remarkable that there are still houses on a slope like this. However, the road soon turns into a gravel track so steep that it almost pulls me and my rucksack backward. And to answer my own question from last night, yes, we obviously have the necessary energy, because after about an hour we are above the clouds.
We are surrounded by nothing but dense forest, dew-covered bushes and heather, and it is completely quiet. If it weren't for…
Well, I have to admit that once again I wished I were up here alone, because Angelas need to talk is immense today, and the topics are, how do I put it, quite bizarre. Something about using ones partners gut bacteria for ones own immunity, or something like that. I really can't recall the details, but judging from Angelas words, I gather that I would never get ill again if I constantly stuck my finger up Davids bum. I can only hope I have misunderstood Angela in this matter. Sometimes I can't say anything at all, so astonished am I by her abstract thoughts and theories, but I listen and at least try to understand her.
Once I have cleared the pictures in my head and I can enjoy the beauty of the trail again, I suggest we have breakfast. We quickly found an idyllic spot at the edge of the woods and climbed a little way up the slope. I am glad to have my sleeping mat as the ground is quite damp, plus it is generally a bit chilly up here, but the view is stunning! I munch on the goat cheese I bought at the supermarket yesterday, some yogurt, and a bit of bread. A coffee would be the icing on the cake now, such a bummer I sent my mini-stove home. I could brew us a nice hot cup of coffee on this perfect spot. Oh well, stale tap water has its charms too.
After eight kilometres, we have to leave this beautiful high-altitude trail and descend to Trabadelo, where we rejoin the main route. But where is the path? We see the occasional yellow arrow, but it is never quite clear whether they mark the way or are leading unsuspecting pilgrims to some bar in Pradela. We wander aimlessly, nearly scaring a lumberjack half to death who is wearing ear protectors and only sees us when we jump out of the bushes next to him. The startled man points us in a direction that my GPS confirms, so we are soon on the right track down to Trabadelo. From there, we look down into the valley at the dreadful main road and hope that we have avoided the worst part on our hike through the mountains, knowing full well that we still have to walk along this busy N6 for quite a while.
Before we tackle it, we stop at the first bar we find in Trabadelo for a nice cup of coffee. There is no one in sight as we descend the steps into the courtyard of a hostel, only a few pilgrims seem to have spotted the hand-painted sign that reads Bar And as we sit there in the courtyard, sipping our milky coffee and devouring a huge slice of chocolate cake, Aki actually hobbles down the steps! What an incredible coincidence! This hostel is Akis final destination for today, she won't be going any further because of her foot.
Rest by the river
The rest of the way along the N6 isn't nearly as bad as imagined. According to older accounts, pilgrims used to have to walk on the side of this busy road, but now vertical concrete slabs have been installed to form a footpath. There are also cafés along the way where you can stop for refreshments, and the path often leads slightly away from the N6 through small villages and along the river Río Valcarce.
In Las Herrerías we unbuckle our rucksacks next to a small Roman bridge on the riverbank and take a break. I take off my shoes and dip my feet into the icy stream. The water is so cold that I can't stand it for more than a few seconds, it actually hurts. And what does Angela do? She puts on her swimsuit and goes for a swim. Those who are also resting here by the river and know just how icy cold this water is stare in her direction in disbelief, just as In Las Herrerías we unbuckle our rucksacks next to a small Roman bridge on the riverbank and take a break. I take off my shoes and dip my feet into the icy river. The water is so cold that I can't stand it for more than a few seconds, it actually hurts. And what does Angela do? She puts on her swimsuit and goes for a swim. Those who are also resting here and know just how icy cold this water is stare in her direction in disbelief, just as incredulous as I am.
»She's always like that,« I say to a young couple of pilgrims sitting next to me on the shore, watching Angela with wide eyes.
»Pretty crazy,« the young man remarks as he awakens from his facial rigidity.
»Yes,« I confirm, »she is.«
But even the hardy Angela has to stand up and catch her breath after a few strokes, because the cold has literally constricted her chest.
We stay on the bank for a while. I like Angela a lot. Maybe because she is so different from most of the people I know. She reminds me of a friend from elementary school, little Ute from Aschenbruch in Bochum-Wattenscheid, where I grew up. Ute was very similar to me because, just like me, she would have preferred to be a boy. After school, we used to play together in the fields around the Günnigfeld cemetery, climb trees, fight with stick swords, and steal fruit and vegetables from the allotment gardens. Utes face was always dirty, especially around her mouth, because she used her dirty rascal's fingers to gobble up all the berries and other wild-growing delicacies. We would sit for hours in the cornfield, which we had first trampled flat in one spot to declare our territory. Then we would shell the grains and eat them until one day I accidentally rubbed my eyes afterward and couldn't see a thing for a while. My eyes were completely swollen shut, it was my first of many hay fever attacks that lasted well into young adulthood. Anyway, at some point Ute moved to Bonn with her parents, and I was devastated. I never again had such a kindred spirit as her.
I snap out of my reverie when Angela accidentally drops her peach in the dirt. She picks it up, lies down on the fine sandy bank with her wet body, and washes the peach in the river. I find myself smiling as I watch her. Angela is Ute.
Some time after the village of Vega de Valcarce, the trail climbs steeply again through the forest, something I didn't expect at all. Further up comes another quaint little mountain village, La Faba, where we pass a bar. It is already late afternoon, and the sun is blazing hot, despite the altitude. Since it is not far to O Cebreiro, we decide to have a drink. We find a spot under a parasol and sit comfortably opposite the bar by the roadside, practically on the main street of the small village. But this main street up here is about as comparable to a narrow lane in the deepest part of Snowdonia. And because Angela and I think we are Super women, instead of a coffee, we are treating ourselves to a large beer for a change. It is only a measly five kilometres to go, we think.
Oh well. If only I had known. It is all uphill, and I could fall asleep walking. After all that effort, I am chugging this beer in the heat, and now I am barely making any progress. Angela seems to be doing well, at least she walks quite a bit ahead of me. I mean, I am not doing too badly either, I just can't seem to get the hang of these last few kilometres. It is like I take two steps forward, only to stumble one step back.
The Eucharistic Miracle of O Cebreiro
Shortly before O Cebreiro, we finally reach Galicia. The border is in the middle of nowhere. Now it is official, I am almost at the end of my journey. Don't think about it, don't think about it…
O Cebreiro, by the way, became famous through a miracle that is said to have taken place in the 14th century. The story goes that a Benedictine monk, celebrating Mass in the church of Santa María la Real de O Cebreiro, was inwardly doubting whether Christ was truly present in the Eucharist. During a winter storm, a poor villager named Juan Santín arrived after a difficult journey up the hill to attend Mass. The monk reportedly questioned why anyone would come in such weather 'just to see a little bread and wine.' At the moment of consecration, the Host was said to become visible flesh and the wine visible blood.
Incredible! That poor farmer climbed all the way from Barxamaior to O Cebreiro just for the blessing and some wine and bread. At least he was smarter than me and waited with the alcohol until he got to the top. Incidentally, the chalice used to collect the blood is featured on the Galician coat of arms. It can still be seen today as the Holy Grail in that church.
We check into the cheapest hostel, as it is the only one with beds available at this time of day. As usual we are assigned a bunk bed. It is crammed in between others, even though the front bunks are completely empty. Whatever, I am so tired, I don't really care anymore. I even volunteer for the top bunk. After 29 kilometres through hilly terrain, with a net walking time of about ten hours, I am just completely exhausted. I want to shower, then eat, then sleep.
The shower cubicles have no door, but it doesn't matter. The hot water still feels good, and I would have loved to shower for hours. The stench of sewage and my hunger eventually drive me out, and soon Angela and I are sitting in a nearby bar eating the obligatory pilgrim's meal. A bottle of wine is included in the price, and since I don't care about anything else, I gladly accept it today.
A young man named Niels joins us. He overhears us speaking German and is happy for our company. Since he also gets a whole bottle of wine, things get quite lively for him and Angela, but I have had enough and want to go to bed.
It is strange, I am so tired and exhausted, but I still can't fall asleep properly. When Angela arrives later, I am suddenly incredibly happy to see her.
»Oh, you're back! Are you okay?« I ask sleepily.
»I am fine, thank you.« Angela smiles.
»Are you staying here now? Are you not leaving again?«
»Of course I'm staying here, where else would I go?« she remarks surprised, whereupon I turn over, satisfied, and drift off to sleep. The next morning Angela remembers nothing of our conversation. Either she was too drunk, or I dreamt it.
Distance: 29,2 km / Steps: 49745