October 11, 2022
- Route: Vilalba to A Lagoa
- Distance: 31.1 kilometers (19.3 miles)
- Cumulative Distance: 753.3 kilometers
It was still dark when I departed the albergue but I stopped to gawk at the moon, which sat full and round overhead in the sky. Technically, the full moon emerged a day prior, but it still seemed just as bright today as it hovered above all the houses and trees.
This full moon is often called a “Hunter’s Moon” and it holds significance in indigenous North America and other cultures. The name comes from the time of year, when all the deer and foxes fattened themselves over summer, and hunters could track and kill their prey by moonlight to build their stockpile of winter food.
Some people project additional spiritual significance or intention upon the Hunter’s Moon though, with ideas ranging from balance and gratitude, to transition, to ancestors and the afterlife.
Joe (the pilgrim from New Jersey who I’d recently walked with) was one of the people who held the Hunter’s Moon in a special place. He had some Native American friends who’d recently lost a their son, and they given him a few special items to bring with him on this journey. And one of Joe’s goals was to place these trinkets at Camino’s Cruz de Ferro (Iron Cross) on the Hunter’s Moon.
Pilgrims often bring a small stone from their home to place at the tall wooden base of this particular cross, leaving it behind as a symbol of their journey. However, in addition to rocks, you might see letters, trinkets, or special messages too.
It’s a lovely ritual, but there was only one problem. The Cruz de Ferro wasn’t on the Camino Del Norte. It was on the primary Camino Frances route some 180 kilometers away from us.
So, I’d said goodbye to Joe back in Ribadeo and wished him well on his quest. He was going to take a bus to Lugo (a bigger city) and then another one to Ponferrada (a medium city just west of the cross) so he could walk to the Cruz de Ferro on the Hunter’s Moon and place the offerings was carrying at there.
As I sipped my cup of coffee at a bar on the Camino Del Norte, I checked Instagram to see if he made it to the Cruz de Ferro in time. I was pleased to see he’s already posted photos himself during the dawn hours along with each of the items he was carrying for himself and others.
It might seem a bit superstitious to an outsider looking in, but I knew it gave him significant comfort to be able to carry some sage and special message from his grieving Native American friends to this special spot.
MY FEET HURT
As the sun rose and began to shine its light on the landscape around me, I couldn’t help but notice that the trail looked like autumn. Rust brown pine needles coated the ground like a blanket. Bright orange ferns lined the shoulders of the path. And more and more of the leaves on the deciduous trees were turning gold.
I wound my way through the Galician countryside past hamlets of stone homes with slate roofs. I’ve mentally begun referring to this sight as “dinosaur roofs” because the ridgeline of slate seems to protrude upward reminding me of the scales of a stegosaurus.
I spent my entire morning walking on quiet roads toward Baamonde, occasionally crossing the highway and then back again.
I wanted to focus all my energy on the landscape, but I was distracted by that familiar plantar fasciitis pain developing in my right arch and heel. My well-worn trail runners no longer had the structural support that my feet needed, and I was paying the price.
I brought my roller ball – a cork ball about the size of a golf ball – out here on this Camino to help massage my arches in the evenings and stimulate the blood flood needed to repair the damaged tissue. But at this point, I needed something more. What I really needed was a pair of brand new shoes to walk in. The soles and cushioning in this pair was kaput.
But I tried to convince me sore feet to just hold up for a few more days. I’ll be done with this Camino soon, I silently promised them. Just hang in there a little bit longer.
THE FINAL 100 KM
The morning was punctuated by one big climb, but then it was mostly just relaxed walking thought relatively flat, open country.
Somewhere along the way, I passed an older couple out walking on one of the country roads. These folks weren’t pilgrims. They were well into their seventies, and neither one of them looked to be more than about five feet tall. Yet they were just the most adorable duo ever, and I loved seeing them out walking at their age!
As I continued south, it was quieter than normal. There weren’t any services for the first 19 kilometers of the morning and I’d have to wait until I reached Baamonde to reach any towns of note. But I already knew that would be the case. It’s the primary reason why I walked such a short day yesterday.
Farm fields lined either side of the Camino, with the occasional homes and outbuildings within my sight. A mural painted on the white stucco of one these homes that captured my attention as I walked by, but mostly it was just me and my thoughts as I walked.
Baamonde
After four hours of walking completely on my own, I eventually entered the small town of Baamonde. Rather than a village with a typical town square though, all the businesses seemed to congregate near a traffic roundabout on the far end of town.
Baamonde’s significance wasn’t about in the town itself. The real reason it was on most people’s radar was because it marked the final 100 kilometers before pilgrims reached Santiago.
I was mentally expecting Baamonde to be a bit like the town of Sarria, which sat just over 100 kilometers from Santiago on the Camino Frances. Sarria was a bustling place, with lots of albergues and hotel for all the new pilgrims flooding onto the Camino who just wanted to walk the minimum distance to get their compestela.
Yet Baamonde was nothing at all like Sarria. It was sleepy and quiet. It was barely a speck on the map, even though it was off a major highway! I suppose this was why all the new pilgrims were joining the Camino Del Norte back in Ribadeo. There were plenty of albergues and restaurants, and even buses going through there!
It was barely noon when I walked into town, which meant it was far too early for any of the tiny cafes or bars to be serving lunch. That wouldn’t happen for at least another hour or two.
So I stopped to fill my belly with café con leche and a wedge of egg and potato tortilla instead. I hadn’t eaten this breakfast dish much, finding that I prefer my egg dishes to have cheese in them (which you rarely find in most Spanish tortillas).
Anyone who ever tried to tell me tortilla was like just like quiche was going to get a boisterous argument from me. Quiche has a flaky crust. And cheese. And even vegetables. Tortilla was just eggs and unseasoned potatoes, and sometime onion, baked in a round pan.
But, this bland dish seemed to be my only real food choice before I had to depart Baamonde to walk the final 12 kilometers to my albergue. So I accepted my cheese-less, crustless fate.
As I departed Baamonde, I found myself walking on the wide shoulder of a busy road for the next thee kilometers. About halfway thru this dull roadwalk, I heard an unusual honking sound behind me. It wasn’t a vehicle horn or a train whistle. It sounded more like a clown car at the circus honking its retro clown horn.
The sound repeated itself behind me two more times and then the railroad tracks beside me seemed to vibrate with energy and a low hum. What the heck?!
I whipped out my camera just in time to catch a fast moving green locomotive hauling 15-20 freight cars laden with trees. I suspect it was heading to the lumberyard. But, for the life of me, I still can’t figure out what such a massive train had such a wimpy sounding horn to warn cars or pedestrians of its approach.
BACK TO THE FOREST
At the end of my three kilometer roadwalk, the Camino crossed a medieval bridge over the Rio Barga. The sun was out now, and the cerulean blue of the sky reflected off the river’s smooth surface. And then I was back inside the shadowy forest walking on a dirt path once again with the sound of the cars fading into the distance.
As I walked deeper into the wood, I stumbled up the chapel of St. Albert, which seemed to be hidden in the forest with green moss covering its stone walls. It was locked up tight, which was fine because I wasn’t going in. The entire scene had a horror film vibe that made me pick up my pace for the next few kilometers.
Crumbling ruins of several structures lined the path as the Camino dove further into the woods, and I just couldn’t shake the weird feeling that I was being watched. There wasn’t a soul around, at least as far as I could see. But it all just gave me the heebie-jeebies.
When I got to a junction. I could turn left and stay on the main Camino route, or I could turn right and take a more direction route to Santiago that cut 10 kilometers off the meandering route through forests and countryside. Or I could stay on the main route toward Miraz.
The new, shorter route wasn’t really an option for me though. It had no services along the way, and it would have completely bypassed the albergues in A Lagoa and Miraz. So, it was really only feasible for the handful pilgrims starting their day in Baamonde. I’d be sticking to main Camino route.
SELLO
Sticking to the longer route wasn’t a complete wash though. Up ahead, in the hamlet of Seixón de Abaixo, I’d get the opportunity to pass by an artist known for fashioning unique wax stamps for pilgrims who stopped in to visit him. The Camino went right past him home, but I had not idea if I’d know the place when I saw it.
I needn’t have worried. The artist had a sign out front of his home that read sello (stamp), and it was clearly a creative person’s home with sculptures and other colorful art work adorning the yard.
The gate was open, so I walked into the yard. But the dutch door on the front of his home was locked up tight. Did that mean he was closed? Should I bother him for my silly stamp? Or just continue on?
I stood there for a full minute, internally debating the best course of action. Then I decided to just be bold. I pulled the long rope hanging below the metal bell next to the door and I waited. But nothing happened.
After about 90 seconds with no response, I was preparing to leave when a woman rounded the corner of the outside of the house. She asked me if I was looking for a sello and when I responded in the affirmative, she told me (in Spanish) that the man was sleeping. It was after 3 pm – siesta time in Spain.
I turned to leave without the stamp, but then she told me to wait. She aggressively tugged on the bell’s rope two more times to wake the man. I felt bad about drawing him out of his siesta for my selfish whims, but as it turn out, he was more than a happy to oblige.
He walked over to his artist’s shed and unlocked it, then went to go retrieve a blow torch. As he lit his long nose of his torch to melt the wax, he asked me if I was from Germany. Man, if I had a Euro for every time someone assumed I was German…
I thanked him for the stamp and asked if I could offer an donation, but he politely declined. This was his contribution to the Camino and the pilgrims (like himself) who walked it.
A Solo Celebration
It was less than two kilometers further to my albergue in A Lagoa. But there was a small bar en route, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to stop for a cold Estrella Galicia on this beautiful October afternoon.
I had so much to celebrate. I’d walked more than 750 kilometers (~465 miles)! And I had less than 100 kilometers left to go. In just a few days’ time I’d be in Santiago and it felt surreal! Had I really been out here walking for nearly a month? It felt like a lifetime ago when I walked across the border from France into Spain.
I sat in the sun enjoying myself and the quiet solitude until 4 p.m., but I knew I needed to finish the remaining kilometer to the albergue soon. I was staying at a private albergue in A Lagoa tonight and I planned to eat my dinner there as so many pilgrims had positively raved about the food. Thus, I needed to make sure to arrive in time to give them a good headcount before it was time to get cooking.
My meal at the albergue would turn out to be a completely different dining experience than the communal dinner I was expecting though.
When I checked in, the hospitaliero told me dinner was at 6:30 pm. But when I walked into the dining room at the appointed time, I was shown to a private table and given the menu options. I wouldn’t be dining in communal setting. I’ve be eating alone tonight – with just the company of some heavy metal music videos droning on the TV above the bar.
Apparently all the other pilgrims staying at the albergue were Spanish. So they didn’t expect to eat their dinner before 8 pm or 9 pm – the typical Spanish dinner hour. That was weird. I was accustomed to pilgrims, getting together to eat a communal dinner, regardless of their nationality. The goal was to eat early so we could get to bed by 10 p.m. and up early the next morning to walk.
But then it dawned on me what was going on. I was walking the final 100 kilometers of the Camino de Norte now. This was the bare minimum distance a pilgrim had to walk to earn their Compestela. These ‘new’ pilgrims would only be out here walking three to five days total before they got to Santiago.
So, of course it made sense that they weren’t going to change their daily rhythm for a few days out on the Camino. They would rise at their normal times in the morning. They would eat at their normal times in the evening. Why should they alter any of their daily habits for this short walking vacation? In a blink of an eye they’d just be back home again.
