Saturday May 4, 2024
- Starting Point: Sabarís (km 151.7)
- Ending Point: Vigo (km 174.6)
- Distance Walked: 22.9 km (14.2 miles)
- Route: Coastal Route
The snoring at the hostel last night was just outrageous! It was like the bluegrass song Dueling Banjos, but a bit more in the vein of “dueling chainsaw snorers.” Even with earplugs in, I wasn’t able to fall asleep until after 11 pm.
As a result, I decided to splurge on a private hotel room in Vigo this evening. Having a room to all to myself will give me a chance to catch up on my sleep a little bit and spread out all my clothing and gear – just to give it a chance to dry out.
I tried to hang my gear up to dry when I arrived at the albergue in Sabarís last night. But with the constant humidity from the overnight rain, and all the other pilgrims in the small communal space also vying for space to hang their items, everything was still quite damp this morning.
My shoes were the worst item, though. They didn’t dry at all, and they smelled like a wet dog. Pulling on a pair of cold, clammy shoes filled me with resignation. My feet were moist before I even stepped outdoors. But on the positive side, I wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding the puddles this morning when the rain returned!
It wasn’t raining when I left the albergue ahead of my fellow pilgrims. But it was amazingly windy with a constant blast of 20 mph, with gusts closer to 35. I was even having trouble keeping my hat on, so I mostly kept my head down.
As I wound through the streets of Sabarís, I saw my first horreo. I remembered puzzling over these small graineries when I did my first Camino. But now they seem a natural – even comfortingly familiar – part of the Spanish landscape in my eyes.
Australians
Storm clouds dominated the sky as I walked north. But it was warmer and quite humid this morning, so I didn’t need to walk at a brisk pace to get my blood pumping for heat. Instead, I felt as if I was meandering along at a relaxed pace with the knowledge that I only had to travel a meager 23 kilometers today. Vigo was just a hop, skip, and a jump away. And I should be there in less than 5 hours’ time.
My first detour of the day came at Ramallosa. The Camino route split here, with the main path remaining slightly inland toward the parque forestal, while an alternate route stuck on the beachfront and along the coastline. Given the wind and limited views expected today under the clouds, I was going to opt for the hills.
I made a brief stop in town for a coffee and a churro, and I had a really nice chat with some Australian folks. The first Australian was a woman who was walking the Camino solo. She told me she’d departed her albergue hours ago, only to take a wrong turn. A local driver out saw her heading up into the hills, stopped her, and asked if she was a peregrina. When she confirmed that she was, he immediately turned her around and sent her back toward the Camino.
Unfortunately for her, between this wrong turn and her return back to the proper route, she’d wasted a full 6 kilometers of walking off-track before arriving in Ramallosa just behind me. Yet, seeing me sitting outside the cafe was a huge relief. She was back on track now and felt that she “earned” a coffee stop.
We ended up sharing a table, and when a couple in their 60s emerged from the cafe, they heard her accent and immediately stopped. They were from Australia too! For the next 5 minutes, they set about figuring out which cities and states of Australia they were each from (she was from Melbourne, while they were from Perth) and talked about the funny things they had in common.
The couple from Perth started in Lisbon, unlike the two of us who’d each started in Porto. When I asked the man in the couple what he thought about the miles between Lisbon and Porto, he gave me a look. Then he announced is was horrible. He hadn’t liked it at all, and he didn’t feel as if the Camino was what they’d expected until they got to Porto.
Well, I guess that validated my decision to walk the shorter route. It didn’t sound like I missed too much during those first 300 kilometers. My best friend Sean and his wife Angelique had the same impression last year. They’d wanted to coastal walking, but were stuck 30 miles inland instead.
Heavy Rain
After finishing up my coffee and saying goodbye to the Australians, I was eager to get walking. The rain held off this long, but I knew it would eventually come this morning. The more miles I could get under my belt beforehand, the better.
The skies eventually opened up around 9 am, just as the forecast predicted. We were supposed to get 1.5 to 2 inches of rain over the next 24 hours and this morning’s storm had come down in a fury! It even seemed to be raining sideways for a full hour (courtesy of the strong winds) before it eventually dwindled down to a normal rain.
Consequently, I didn’t see much of this stretch of the walk. The only landmark that left any impression was a distinctive blue metal bridge that took me over the highway. It seemed to vibrate as large trucks drove under it, and I couldn’t wait to get up and over to the road’s other side.
On my way down the ramp on the bridge’s opposite side, I was amused to see signs for American Beach below me. I wonder how it got its name. Was there something distinctive that set it apart from all the other beaches near Nigrán? I know the name “America” originally came from the 15th century explorer Amerigo Vespucci – but he was Italian, not Spanish. So I doubt that had anything to do with it.
As the rain got lighter, I walked into a town with trees lining the road. They’d been severely pruned of their branches to the point that they looked unnatural. I used to see people do this all the time to the blooming trees when we lived in Virginia. One of my neighbors used to refer to this over-pruning of the crepe myrtles as “crepe murder.” And that’s the phase that always crops into my head anytime I see trees in that over-pruned state.
Stealthy cyclists & Muiños
Perhaps because of the rain, it was a quiet Saturday morning when I made my way north into the Parque Forestal Saians – a large greenspace south of Vigo.
I spent the better part of the next few hours on muddy and flooded trails hopscotching across puddles to avoid slipping on the trail. My shoes may already be hopelessly wet. But they didn’t need to get them any muddier or stinkier.
I was slowly working my way past some puddles when some mountain bikers scared the crap out of me. They came hucking up behind me on the trail, and the first one appeared just feet behind me before he announced himself. Then he rode past me without another word.
As a result, I genuinely thought he was by himself. But several minutes later, there were two more cyclists. And then a minute later, two more cyclists. You would have thought the wet ground would have given their approach away. But with my jacket hood up and the constant patter of the rain, I got startled each time.
I sighed in relief when they finally passed. But that wasn’t the last I’d see of them. One of the men was having an issue with the mud and his gears, so soon I was back upon them again. I hoped they’d fix the problem quickly, but no dice. So, 10 minutes later the whole process of passing on the muddy trail began again. And this went on a third time also.
While I played leapfrog with the cyclists, I discovered something fairly interesting in the forest. I was on a trail that went past several old muiños (or mills). One of them was set up below a dammed stream and the grinding stones were still inside the small moss & fern-covered structure.
I didn’t know the word muiño – since it definitely wasn’t one of the vocabulary words in my high school Spanish class. Thank goodness, I’d finally got on board with downloading Spanish in the Google Translate app, so I could look it up on the spot and now spend the rest of my walk wondering what the heck it was.
Nearly to Vigo
I eventually made my way to the end of the trails in the parque forestal, but not before having the five cyclists come up behind me one last time. By now, I was more than ready to part ways with them. There’s only so many times I can take being startled in mone morning!
The Camino eventually returned to pavement and sidewalks again as I reached the sprawling suburbs of Vigo. It would have been shorter to just to follow the sidewalks directly to my hotel, but I decided to stick to the Camino route instead. Thus, my final 8.5 km of the day would mostly follow a meandering path under the highway, past rural village homes, and even beside some hobby farms and small orchards.
On my way through one of the villages, I passed a small garage where a local man was bottling his own wine. This reminded me of my last camino in 2022. I’d been near Gijon up on the Camino del Norte when I stopped to watch two men feeding grapes into a machine that was producing grape juice for them to make into wine.
This older fellow was at a different stage of his winemaking process and seemed to be bottling his wine this weekend. I asked him if I could take a photo, and he just beamed with pride while posing for me near his manual corking device.
On the outskirts of the village, I passed another muiño that sitting perched above a river. This mill was fully restored with descriptive signs and placards about the old muiños in the area. Given its location, I suspect it saw far more visitors than the ones sitting deep in the parque forestal.
I could have just walked by, but curiosity got the better of me. Thus, I decided to take a brief stop to trek down the slippery, wet stairs to take a peek inside it. When was I ever going to see something like this again? Besides, some historical group put in real effort to capture this small piece of rural technology.
Vigo
The final few miles of the day took my along a lovely – albiet muddy – river walking path called the “Vigo active” that led into the city center. A bunch of donkeys sat in a field on one side, while the Rio Lagares ran along the other side. The rain was just a light sprinkle now, but there still were relatively few people out and about.
I eventually made it into the town center around 2 pm and was eager to check into my hotel. I’d been wet for the better part of the day, and I desperately wanted a warm shower, a set of dry clothes, and to tend to my feet.
Despite my modest mileage today, I’d developed a new blister between two of my toes from the friction of my wet socks. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait any longer for the luxury of a dry space. The hotel had a room ready for me when I arrived.
Once I’d showered it was time to head to the laundromat to wash and dry my clothes, get some food for my dinner at a local market, and rinse out my muddy shoes before setting them near the balcony door to dry. I didn’t have high expectations my shoes would actually dry overnight. And tomorrow we’ll get even more rain. But at least my small hotel room won’t smell quite as bad.
With a hotel room all to myself, I decided to make the most of the privacy. I wanted to spend a quiet night indoors. Just me. Some food. A book on my Kindle app. And a glass or two of wine from the demi bottle I’d picked up at the market.
But that’s where I discoverd I’d need to learn some new vocabulary words. This time the Spanish phrases were abridor de viño (wine opener) and sacacorchos (corkscrew). It turns out the small bottle of wine I’d purchased had a cork in it. But I didn’t have anything with which to remove it.
Neither did my hotel room.
Nor the receptionist at the hotel’s front desk.
Nor the convenience store just down the street.
Nor the grocery store where I’d originally bought the wine!
In the end, my scavenger hunt didn’t cease until I visited two more grocery stores, where I finally tracked one down with the help of a patient store clerk! For a country where wine is ubiquitous, who would have thought finding a corkscrew would be such a challenge??
