On our way again by seven fifty five am, a bit late but Mark and I were both tired. We had chastised Ulli for keeping us awake Ooo and Aaaa-ing but we could see she had slept too well for it to have been her next door. We had to explain it a couple of times before she fell in to our joke. The books said there are two ways out of town. One is longer but with a gentler gradient, but Ulli was fresh up and out so we chose the hard way, it went almost straight up a very steep hill. Even so I think it was probably the best route, for the views were quite stunning.
About half way to Cea, Ulli said we should cross over to the other track. She had the map and was usually right so Mark and I followed her advice and the three of us set off on the road that joined the two tracks. It was a bit strange walking and having no arrows to follow but it wasn’t long before we found them again. The cross over and other road for the most part was asphalt, but as it was not so hot now and my feet were hardened, so this was no problem. It was a pleasant walk with the three of us joking and keeping together most of the way.
Ulli did speed on ahead on the last part as was her custom and she had already picked her bunk and done her washing by the time we arrived about two p.m. We did ours, then all went into the village for a ‘Tinto de Verano’ and found the bar packed with new peregrinos, many of them were the type that were with tours, complete with vans or buses to carry their bags! We had been told there would be lots more now that we were only a hundred and twenty kilometres from Santiago. Because on your arrival at Santiago, (that’s if you have the appropriate stamps from here to prove you walked it) you can claim as a pilgrim, your certificate from the church.
We left this bar and went to find a shop and another quieter spot. It was Sunday no shops open but the bar we now sat in said they would cook at eight o’clock. We drank two more tintos then we went back to the albergue and here I got in conversation with the girls in the bunks opposite and found out they were a mother and daughter and a cousin that had started in Ourense but came from Córdoba. Mari Cruz, was the mother and later we were to become very good friends, her name I remembered as I’d already met one Mari Cruz way back, in Galisteo but Paz and Marta’s I’m am ashamed to say I never really learnt theirs till I got back home. They were having a little trouble with their feet, it was, after all their first days on the track. I gave as much help as I could, advising them to Vaseline their feet regularly. I told them Mark had walked from Seville a thousand kilometres with hardly a blister, I had actually started in Cordoba eleven hundred kilometres and suffered many big ones. Ulli on the other hand had walked three hundred kilometres on the French Camino before catching a train to Seville. Then she had walked the Vía del Plata from there, and would have completed a mammoth thirteen hundred kilometres by the time we all got to Santiago without a blemish on of her feet. Ulli never did anything to her feet. Mind you, her left boot had to be prayed too, and spoken too, every night, and patched and repaired in several towns to encourage it to complete the journey. Mark was just careful and I greased mine three times a day. It just doesn’t add up, we are all individual, probably good boots are the most important thing, I suggested.
Ulli, Mark and myself went to eat at our second bar restaurant and I had a superb salmon steak I remember. From there we went back, collected the dry washing, and went to bed. Oh dear! That night was murder the lights were on an automatic switch and would come on for a second, then go out. Having a wash or shave was a work of art. Try waving your arms whilst shaving to keep the light on! Then there was the staircase light that lit up the dormitory. Arr! This went on and off all night long. There were lots of new peregrinos filling the bunks and everyone seemed to want to take a pee during the night.
28/06/04
Monday
Photos --1235--1239
To Lalin LaxeWe left at seven twenty. I think it was from here that Ulli went one way some forty kilometres and Mark and I went the shorter way about thirty.
We passed through Gest, (not sure of spelling,) walking down hot country lanes. I found two more four-leaf clovers. We stopped to eat four or five kilometres out then continued and got into Laxe about quarter to eight, having walked about thirty kilometres. This is a tiny village swamped by motorways, they go all round it. It has no shops and we had to walk down the road and over a bridge and turn left to find a bar. It catered for all the lorries from the industrial area this side of the motorway. Trust us, we missed the turning and had to walk back again to find it, much to the displeasure of my feet as I was walking in my sandals. We got our Tinto de Veranos and free’tapas’ and were told that they open at six in the morning if we wanted breakfast. Back at the albergue, which was very nice and very modern, we collected our washing and met our all male dorm company, mostly Spanish youngsters who asked us to sign our names on a T shirt. Real end to enders are well respected by the young people that only started in Ourense and are suffering with bad feet and mostly carrying less than ten kilos. This place had automatic lighting but it was not quite so bad in the dorm thank goodness.
29/06/04
Tuesday
Photos --1239--1244
Banderira, Hotel Victorino
We let the lads clearout, then we left but decided against crossing the motorway for breakfast and went a long way before we could find a place for coffee.
I seemed to have some trouble with my shoulders and feet again.
It was a nice enough walk but I was tiring when we came into Banderira. We followed the arrows out of town towards an albergue. After walking some four kilometres in what we decided was the wrong direction, we made the decision to go back to the town now, rather than have to do the same road in the morning therefore making a long day tomorrow. We both thought this albergue should never have been on the list as it meant you would have to walk ten kilometres for nothing when there were cheap hotels in town. We found a one star hotel on the left in the high street. On the terrace in front of the hotel two large copper caldrons steamed away. The terrace and bar were part of the hotel and both were packed with people eating octopus off wooden platters.
“We should be able to get a good traditional meal here.” I said.
Banging on a side door brought a pleasant young woman who showed us a room on the third floor. We took it and asked her if we could get our washing done for us. Reluctantly she agreed and we came down with it a little later and realised why. The family ran the place and the restaurant was twice the size, no three times the size we had thought and it was overflowing with people eating mainly octopus. Eventually we got her little son to get his mother and she came into the hallway wiping her hands. We gave her the washing and she sent her son into the back with the big bag, promising to have it washed and dry that night. She apologised for not being able to stop and talk and flew off to take another table’s order, leaving us to hope she would be able keep that promise. We happened to catch a glimpse of Mari Cruz and her family as we came out of the lift but were not able to speak them. We ate about quarter to nine when the restaurant was less crowded, and had a good fish dinner. When we went to pay our bill later, we asked for the washing and were given it all dry, ironed, and neatly folded!
30/06/04
Wednesday
Photos --1244--1255
To Monte de Gozo
Left at eight a.m. Misty but good walking weather. We had intentions to stop about ten kilometres out of Santiago and arrive tomorrow. At noon we saw a very high bridge over to our right and Mark, who is uncomfortable with heights, started to worry, but the track turned to the left and descended into a very pretty valley.
On the way down we discovered wild strawberries growing in the grass of the banks and ate a large number of the tiny sweet fruit. Saw this Bambi too. We met Mari Cruz and the girls and walked and chatted with them. We found a new albergue that was about sixteen kms out of Santiago. We got water bottles filled and a coke from the machine and went on, we thought it would be hard to arrive before eleven in the morning, but really it wouldn’t have been a problem. The girls walked much slower than us and we left them saying we’d see them at the albergue but on coming to a ‘Casa Rural’ Mark said he thought there would be a albergue in four kilometres. There was not and we found ourselves getting close to the city. We found a hotel called ‘El Vía de Plata’ or some such name and asked the price, it was definitely not for peregrinos because the cheapest room would cost us sixty-four Euro each! We went a little way back to a café and asked there. They advised that we should walk round the town to the north and find the albergue in Monte de Gozo, so taking their directions we set off after a coffee. They had said it was four about kilometres but it must have been six at least. All up and down steep hills. For an easy day this was not the way to go, we must have walked thirty-five to forty kilometres all told.
Nearly there we suddenly saw the baroque towers of the cathedral in the distance and both got our cameras out and took a photograph. We stood there realising our time was almost up, we were arriving. We could only put it off till the morning now. We entered the big complex and looked at a billboard that had a map of the place. Lorries were carting away gear from a rock concert of some sort and scattered rubbish was being collected. The map didn’t help us so we found two workers and they directed us to the building we needed. Here we were redirected to one of the many rows of dorms, first to sign in and get our stamp, then to the dorm we were to use. We had arrived about seven, very tired in this enormous complex. It was all very much like a Butlin’s Holiday Camp with hundreds of walkers and even horses about, one dorm companion had completed the Camino by horse! After our Vía De Plata it was like a mad house, we were on the last kilometres of the Francés Camino now but at least we could get our washing done in the laundry-mat machines.
01/07/04
Thursday
Photos --1255--127ae
To Santiago de CompostelaIt was strange getting up and knowing I would soon be walking along the same way I had last year into the very town that had been our goal for so long. Mark and I let most of our dorm leave before us and then we set off to find the yellow arrows. It wasn’t long before we came to an old stone house on a corner, its garden absolutely full with a collection of stone statues. It wasn’t till I was just turning the corner that I recognised the spot. We had now joined the route that I had walked last year. I felt strange, I kept trying to recognise other parts but I think I had seen so much on my travels that very few bits registered on my mind. We came in sight of the towers again, this I remembered and how I’d felt.
“This is it Mark, we are arriving” I stated, Mark nodded in reply.
It’s a strange feeling, elation on having completed something you thought impossible, combined with a sadness, knowing it’s all over.
We were both quite choked with emotion as we found our way through the narrow streets thronged now with people of all ages carrying rucksacks and shop keepers who took no notice of them as they set out there souvenirs and trinkets for sale. For two months now, in every town and village, we had been stared at and people had stopped what they were doing to ask us who we were, where we going. Now no one cared, somehow I felt a little hurt. We had walked further than any of these peregrinos, we could pick out the ones with new shiny staffs, the one hundred km walkers, and the more hardened, scruffier real camino men and girls with their large packs, rough cut sticks and their bandaged knees and determined but happy faces. But Mark and I had travelled a farther and a much harder route, we had walked the Vía del Plata! Two very proud men passed by the side of the cathedral and down the steps and through the tunnel under a building and into the great stone paved ‘Plaza Obradoro’ which is in front of the massive baroque building.
A large black plastic covered stage with all its sound gear and lighting took up one side, in front of the beautiful facade of Parador ‘Reyes Católicos.’ Pavorote or Placido Domingo was to sing there tonight some one had said.
We started to cross the square and gaped again at this elaborate building with its towers and statues of Santiago, its wrought iron gates and massive brass covered portal. For the second time in a year I stood on the stone carved with a shell in the middle of the Plaza. It was just two days under a year in fact, last time I’d arrived on the third of July two thousand and three, and today was the first of July two thousand and four. Yet I’d had little idea how long it would take me to walk the Vía del Plata and I had left home a month earlier than last time. By coincidence I had left France two days earlier than intended, now here I was. We took each others picture standing dwarfed by the beautiful building, then walked to the far side. I was convinced I had gone into a door in the cathedral and even looked in it to see if I was right! But Mark guided me round the corner to the big door and staircase that I now recognised in another building. We checked we were in the right place at the counter, bought our cardboard tubes then climbed the staircase up to the room above to get our credentials stamped. I was a bit worried that most of my stamps were on pieces of paper stuck into my old credential from last years Camino. We got to the desk after a little wait and the young girl took it and my passport and I explained
“I’m an Australian, I’m afraid the passport number on the credential is different because my passport was stolen last year in Madrid and I’ve been issued with another.”
She seemed to understand and excepted my explanation saying
" ¡Veje mucho distancia para anda un camino en España!”
I’d come a long way to start the Camino in Spain,
“Si verdad” I replied
She then asked me where I’d started and I pointed out the first stamp from Cordoba and said I’d walked from there to Sevilla and then up the Vía del Plata. She smiled and raised her eyebrows to show she was suitably impressed! I noted that Mark, who was alongside me, on stating
“Sevilla” received a similar reaction.
My young lady then gave me a form to fill in. It asked my nationality and why had I walked the Vía. I wrote something like ‘To find myself,’ and then ticked for personal and religious reason’s boxes, and gave it back. I had been told if one puts for recreation, you get a much poorer document in return! She took all my papers away into the other room, presumably to ask if it was all ok as it was on bits of paper and if ok, to put my name and details on the list of pilgrim arrivals for the day.
Armed with our new certificates tucked into cardboard tubes and placed safely in our bags we went back to the Plaza. We took some more photos then climbed the staircase in front of the cathedral
but the main door was closed and we had to go to the side door and entered there. It’s a magnificent cathedral, the altar, the gold and silver statue of Santiago, studded in gems and the gilded canopy, gleamed under the floodlights.
But we turned left up to the darker front door entrance and found the two stone lions with their mouths gaping open and in between the head banging saint, they’re carved on the base of a marble pillar. If you place your hands and the lions close their mouths you have sinned too much and are possessed by the devil! I believe that’s how the old myth goes, then you bang your forehead three times to gain wisdom from the saint, then place your hand on the smooth place on the marble pillar. I went first, I knelt and placed my hands in the lions mouths and banged my forehead the three times as I had been directed last year, said my little bit to myself then reached up to place my hand on the pillar and missed!
Couldn’t find the position! Weird I know, but I almost panicked! Mark came across and pointed and I, very much relieved now found it. It was not as I had imagined last year a complete carved hand imprint, but an elaborate carved pattern, worn smooth over the centuries to fit the hand of the pilgrim. ‘How this could this seem so different’ I wondered ‘from my experience of last year?’ I had gone through the same ritual twice last time, I could not imagine it was anything but a smooth hand imprint. Some weird things happened in this cathedral last time too, I pondered. I shook myself and watched Mark follow in my footsteps. He came out with both his hands and seemed unaffected. We now walked to the other brightly-lit end of the cathedral and found the entrance to the passage and steps that climbs up to the glittering figure of the Saint. I went first leaving my hat and bag with Mark. I hugged the solid silver cape on the shoulders of the effigy and gave thanks for my safe journey, then to all who’d helped me on and before the journey, I thanked my wife for all her support and love, sent my love and thanks to all my peregrino friends. Then I gave him an extra hug as requested from so many of the village folk that had given me help, advice and shelter. I am not a catholic but I must admit this ritual seemed very connected to the spiritual being. I came down the other side and went underneath the altar to see the polished silver casket with Santiago’s remains inside. The vault was crowded with a group of women and I had to squeeze past them to get out of the door opposite. You need to be on your own or just one or two others. I thought, remembering my last visit. Out side again I joined Mark and sent him to see the Santo.
We booked into a hotel left our gear and walked round the town sightseeing like hundreds of other tourists. I found the tourist office and I got a map with the route to Fisterra, because the feeling to continue walking was still very strong and I had heaps of time. Then we had a coffee in a café at the far end of the Rùa de Franco and while we sat there drinking, along came Mari Cruz, Paz and Marta. We invited them to join us for a drink. They told us they had stayed in the ‘Casa Rural’ and made it all the way from there this morning. We chatted but it was a little hard because Mark spoke little Spanish although he understood much more than he spoke. Unknown to either Mark or I, at least two of our charming companions could speak English but were too shy to use it, as is so often the way. They got up to leave, and we swapped e-mail addresses. Mark and I sat for a while just enjoying sitting and watching everyone parading up and down and shopping in the narrow, but busy street. I looked at my watch, half past eleven, we should go, it was time for us to make our way back to the cathedral, for the ‘Peregrinos mas’.
As we had left it a bit late, we couldn’t get a seat, every pew was full. Like most churches this cathedral is built in the form of a cross, the main door is situated at the base and the side door that we now entered through again, was at the end of the right hand-side of the cross arm. There are hundreds of pews down the main part and across the arms. The ones across are for pilgrims. In the old days when people never used to wash, the smell from peregrinos, who had been on the road for months would have been pretty terrible. The reason for sitting them here will soon become apparent. Mark and I went though the massive doors and along the left-hand side past the pilgrim’s pews to the junction, we could go no further, the place was full. We moved as near as we could get to the pews and although standing near a pillar, could see everything quite well. The Cathedral was absolutely packed with worshipers from every nation, many like us were standing in the isles at the edge. There’s a raised platform in the centre of the church under the cupola. The altar stands on this and behind it, speaking into a microphone stood a priest robed in cream with gold trimmings and wearing a tall bishop’s mitre. Behind him sat a row of priests in a semicircle, they were all dressed in brilliant robes of scarlet with little scull caps. I understand nothing about the hierarchy of the Catholic Church nor could I understand the Spanish or was it Latin of the service? But very soon I found tears streaming down my face during the prayers, and I choked as the priest read out the names and nationality of some of today’s pilgrims. I can’t explain the feeling, standing there listening to the few names of those who like me had completed the Vía del Plata, and on hearing
“De Córdoba uno Australiano.”
I remember there were only a few, possibly seven eight at the most who had completed the Vía. I worked it out later, there was, me the Aus, Mark from England, Ulli from Germany, Jacques and Bernadette from France and maybe, I’m not a hundred percent sure if they arrived the same day, one Dutch and two South Africans. There were the Spaniards but they had only done the last bit from Ourense, this of course would have included Mari Cruz and Paz and Marta. I don’t mean to belittle this feat either in any way, it’s dam hard, it’s in those first days that you suffer such a heck of a lot with the feet and legs. Sorry I have no time for those that get a bus to carry the bags, unless they have a good excuse. Many use a bike and that’s fair enough, they have to travel further before being able to claim their pilgrims certificate. But don’t tell me it’s harder for them, because they do twice the distance in a day (as was the argument heard spoken by one cyclist!) They use the smooth road much more than the walkers and you only have to look at the late comers arriving at an albergue to realise who’s the most tired.
I have been so tired and so footsore that I couldn’t understand what drove me to take another step. How was it, after arriving this tired and resting sometimes, only for mere ten minutes. Could I ever have gained enough strength to wash my clothes, buy food for the next day, and later go out again to find a restaurant to eat. Later to return, collapse into my sleeping bag, rolled out on a hard floor, and then! the following morning leave at six, in the dark, and walk thirty or more kilometres!
Yes, this is a religious experience, even if like me you started with no faith. I am not much wiser now but I believe there is something!
Prayers over! The massive solid silver incense burner, (probably near to two meters high,) that had till then, hung over the dais, was lowered. An immaculately robed priest in purple cleared a path through the crowd, just past and in front of us, as another priest similarly dressed carried a shovel full of hot, red glowing coals through, and these were placed in the burner. The thing was then jerked into the air by a number of men. (I couldn’t see the number but the thick rope split into eight or nine at the ground end.) It started to swing, as it swung they pulled it again and it went even higher up over the heads of the people sitting in the pews. Again they pulled and it rocketed through in a great ark right across the church, almost touching the heads below and on up to the roof, then back down again billowing flame and smoke. Close over the heads of the pilgrim congregation and up the other side again, this time I thought it must hit the roof. Probably about half a meter away it hovered for a second or more, then it returned at fantastic speed to repeat its swing, all the while billowing the pungent strong smelling incense. Even two months old body odour, from ancient pilgrims would not have been smelt through this smoke haze of acrid smelling incense. If you have never seen this ritual, maybe you should try to imagine the height. How many apartments one on top of the other would fit inside a cathedral, five maybe six? The rope that it swung on looked about ten centimetres or four inches thick. It was tied in a crude knot to the incense burner, it then proceeded up to and over an iron wheel contraption on a steel rod high up in the middle of the centre copula, then back down for the men to pull on. Mmmm! If it broke would the insurance companies call that an act of God? Mark moved to the doorway to be able to photograph it from the end of its swing.
I now enjoyed the singing of a nun who had came forward to the microphone, her beautiful voice so clear and sweet.
Then while the priests were giving communion I noticed Paz and Marta take the proffered wafer and took a quick photo but, as all my pictures I took in the church, it was blurred. I must have had the close up mode engaged or something else just as stupid.
On leaving the church I found Mark standing with Jacques and Bernadette. They were having a job to communicate as Jacques and Bernadette speak no English at all and Mark but very little Spanish. I was so pleased to see them both. I’d thought they might’ve had to drop out because Bernadette had been having problems with her tendons the last time we had seen them. We took photos of us all on the top of the steps. Then Jacques said to me that he had been trying to tell Mark that they were now going for an octopus ‘Pulpo’ dinner to celebrate their safe arrival. The year before it seems, they had seen a special place, a ‘Pulpería’
A typical, (spit and sawdust,) restaurant, normally only frequented by Spaniards. It was some way out of town he said on the French route. Would we like to join them in their little celebration? As I explained to Mark what Jacques had said, he was screwing his nose and face up as he let his imagination run riot at the thought of eating a slimy octopus. Meanwhile Jacques looked on quite perturbed at Marks facial expressions, he probably didn’t realise English people rarely eat his favourite food! I hoped he wouldn’t take offence and managed to convince Mark that he would be able to get something else. Jacques and I knew that was probably not true, but as Mark could only understand me fully I urged him on in English
“Come on, this could be fun, a typical Spanish lunch to celebrate, what could be better. Come on!”
We set off out of town, towards Monte de Gozo again. At this point it’s probably fair to note I had eaten octopus the year before with my Spanish friends in this very town when celebrating our completion of the Camino but for the life of me I couldn’t remember where the restaurant was now. I had, I admit, been unimpressed by the meal but had managed to eat some. Washing anything down with red wine and orujo and everything will taste nice I’ve found! We had such a great time walking to the restaurant, joking about, I’m translating this and that for Mark and we hardly noticed it must have been a good two kilometres out from the centre of town. It was, as Jacques said, a great place.
We managed to order Mark a fish dinner and he soon cleared his plate then had to watch us eat the octopus. It was dished up on round wooden platters and floating in olive oil, It had been boiled just the right length of time, chopped up into little pieces and dusted in a little paprika. The main thing it tasted much better than I had remembered and I ate the lot. Had my taste changed or maybe it’s the wine?
When we got back to the town centre we sadly said goodbye to Jacques and Bernadette. Mark and I now split up, he had to get his train ticket and had some shopping to do before he left tomorrow. Mark and I had paid a hundred and fifty Euro for tonight’s board and I wasn’t going to pay those prices just to stay in Santiago. I had nearly a month to go before leaving according to my plane ticket.
I tried to find a bank that was open, but in the end I had to use my bankcard in a machine instead of changing foreign notes to get more Euro. Now I must try to get the post office to look after my parcel a bit longer, so there could be no reason for me not to continue to Fisterra. At the post office I found it quite amazing, they said they had my parcel and it could stay there until I got back, up to fifteen days. Well that solved that problem. Now I could see little reason why I shouldn’t leave tomorrow on the Fisterra-Muxía Way. Fisterra here I come.
Amazingly all I wanted to do was keep walking, although I did feel a bit apprehensive about walking on my own again. I went back to the hotel to charge my mobile phone and found the power off and had just given up when Mark arrived, he said
“Stick your key card in here,” indicating a box on the wall.
I did and bingo the lights came on.
“Bloody new fangled gadgets how was I to know that?”
We left my card in the slot to leave the power on to charge the phone, and we hit the town again together. We had just finished another coffee when in walked Ulli, having seen us leaning on the bar. She informed us she had found a cheap place behind the cathedral for twenty-five Euro a night. Well that sounded better and I wrote it down somewhere only to loose it again later. Ulli said we should celebrate with a meal and of course she wanted vegetarian. Mark said he was keen to try some shellfish.
“Ugh! I could never kiss a man who ate those horrible crawly things that are climbing about in every restaurant window.”
Mark and I looked at each other and I laughed
“That counts me out then I have already eaten an octopus earlier” I quipped.
Ulli screwed up her face and shuddered,
“Ugh! You’ve both blown your chances.”
Well of course we couldn’t find a restaurant without them anywhere and they were all so busy now, packed to overflowing. We settled in a ‘tapas’ bar that had patrons two deep at the counter. We quizzed the very busy barman whether he had anything suitable for a vegetarian.
“Of course we have, all you have to do is find a table.” At that moment a tiny table and two chairs was vacated in the back of the crowded room. The barman left his bar and went to a lot of trouble to move the little table for us, so as to obtain enough space for three chairs and then went and found another chair. We more or less had to take our place after he’d gone to so much trouble. Now what was there? He rattled off in Spanish, and I tried to translate for Mark.
“We can have salad, meatballs, veal, prawns, Galicana soup, mussels or another very strange shellfish that I had only read about that’s plucked off the rocks along the northern coasts of Spain. They look like a finger thickness of black seaweed sometimes branching out into two or three, each with a seashell on the end, shaped something like a tulip bud in a blue-ish white. (I had read people often loose their lives attempting to grab these strange shellfish, being washed from the rocks by the enormous waves that frequent this coastline.) In Spain for some unknown reason there seems to be nothing for a vegetarian other than the salad, yet during the day you might find a dish of fried capsicum or other vegetables as ‘tapas’ but not when its dinner time. Ulli could understand our barman well enough and sat with her face screwed up and asked was there meat in the soup?
“The Galicana soup is made from pork broth and VEGETABLES” he said proudly. “I will make sure there are no pieces of meat or bones for you.” There is not much meat,” he added tentatively, seeing her face still set in disgust.
We went into deep discussion over what to have and customers at the bar were becoming impatient so he left us to call him when we had decided. I suddenly noticed, the table next to ours was taken by none other than Mari Cruz and the girls! With them sat the brown robed and be-whiskered peregrino, complete with felt hat with clamshell and brown cape. I’d got Mark to photograph me with him in the square as we had arrived. He was sucking on the end of a beer bottle, and I got the impression from his blood shot eyes he’d now had one to many and was a bit tipsy. I half rose and exchanged pleasantries with the girls and asked if they had enjoyed the mussels they had on their table. ‘El peregrino’ grabbed the plate saying that I must eat them to find out. I took one and said they were good and went to put them back but he would have none of it and insisted I eat the plate full. I’m pretty sure the girls had paid or at least ordered them. I looked at Mari Cruz and she seemed to see the funny side and smiled and indicated for me to eat them, they had finished eating she assured me.
Ulli decided to risk the soup and I had veal. Mark much to my surprise, ordered the strange shellfish. As the barman left us ‘El peregrino’ grabbed him and ordered another beer. The soup and dishes came and I could see Ulli was not enjoying hers, she was tentatively picking out the cabbage that is the main ingredient from the meat gravy! Mark tried his shellfish but couldn’t discover quite how to eat them. I called back the barman and he showed him how to pull off the head then retract the rest of the flesh from the shell top. It all looked a bit revolting to me, let alone to poor Ulli! I finished my plate and Mark asked me to help him out, as while he thought they were fairly nice, but he couldn’t eat a lot of them. I took one and pulled it apart as shown and popped it in my mouth. It reminded me of the seaweed that you sometimes get at Japanese restaurants here in Australia. I took a few more, they were ok but, I couldn’t say they’re worth risking your life to obtain. As a meal there wasn’t much in them to eat, most is thrown away as shell and rubbery casing, they were expensive too.
Mari Cruz and the girls rose and said goodbye, they left us, while ‘El peregrino’ went up to the bar to order another beer. We finished our meal with a coffee and sat awhile, trying to watch the world cup football match on the T.V. at the end of the bar. Watching the world cup soccer had been one of Ulli’s favourite pastimes on our long journey together. Then, as always came the time to leave, so sadly saying
“We all have to get up early tomorrow to go our separate ways,”
Mark and I shook hands with our very good friend Ulli and wished her a good trip home. This tough yet sensitive woman had left home alone, walked thirteen hundred kilometres, and would only kiss a true vegetarian. Sadly I thought I had her Email address written down but I never found it, I hope we meet again some day!
