Why, why, why? I was so looking forward to climbing the steep hills today just for the views. My memory of hiking across the Pyrenees in beautiful sunshine (though windy) has been with me since the beginning of my Camino, matched I was hoping, by a gorgeous crossing into the Galician Highlands. But no. It kept on raining. Why...
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| There's a view here somewhere. |
The path was muddy and the rain came in waves. Between the showers were the clouds that hugged the hills and the fog that enshrouded the path on every side. I could hear cowbells and the whistles and chants of the shepherds but other than the green and red rain covers on the backpacks ahead of me, I saw nothing else. The trail twisted and climbed through old oak forest, past some mighty big chestnuts, and along horse paths to La Faba at the top. A group of French hikers stopped in the middle of the trail to drop their packs. Whyyyy?
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| Small encouragements helped. |
Once around the roadblock, I reflected on my impatience. I was tired of rain. My feet ached. I was cold when I wasn't moving. Yet this was country I so wanted to see. I have dreamed of the Celtic landscapes of Galicia, Ireland, Wales, and Scotland. Somehow, whether by ancestry or just love of green hills and mountains, I am part of this land and I so wanted to see it. Every now and then a vista would open with a brief splash of sunlight, then quickly close again to the fog.
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| Brief views. |
The smell of cow and horse manure was thick in the damp air. A farmer came singing down the trail with a horse beside him. He smiled. This was his farm lane in addition to being the Camino. Farmers have been sharing the path with us all along. Tractors, herds of goats, rivers of sheep, and farm trucks have been constant reminders that the Camino is a living road, not some relic of the past.
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| Coveralls and a jacket and muck boots . |
The mud got deeper. I was slowing way down. It was a sticky red mud that pulled at my heels as I lifted my boots. It held to my hiking poles. Another farmer passed with his cattle dogs. I could hear cowbells, church bells, and - wait - bagpipes? The mud turned to cobble road and rounded a high stone wall to the old church of Santa Maria la Real, where, legend has it the Holy Grail was hidden. The Galacian bagpipes got louder as I emerged on to a street in the fog. O Cebriero! A pub, an artisan's shop (the source of the music), and a large thatched palloza surrounded me, with the old church clanging it's bells behind me. I stood there and cried. I felt silly but an older pilgrim came up and hugged me. "Hits ho-kay! I did cry too! Thees mud! Thees rain! Then voila! Thees Cebriero!"
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| St. James looks Celtic in O Cebriero! |
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| A thatched palloza, house and barn. |
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| The pub where I got warm! |
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| Iglesia Santa Maria Real. |
My new friend, Horatio, a pilgrim from Brussels, invited me into a nice warm pub. Celtic music drifted from some hidden speakers. I tucked into a big piece of empanada. I started to feel my hands again. Horatio, an amateur comedian who frequents the comedy clubs in his home city, told me jokes to the next town and on to the Windswept Pilgrim monument at Alto San Roque. He lingered to take pictures for another pilgrim and I did like the knights in Holy Grail and ran away!
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| A big monument, the Windswept Pilgrim marks the crossing into Galicia. |
I half-jogged down the trail hoping the comedian from Brussels would find another victim - um - audience. The clouds looked like they were lifting and one after another small cattle villages sounded off with mooing, barking, whistling, and farmers shouts. I liked where I was. I started to look for an albergue here in the Highlands where I could fall asleep to the sounds of cattle in the fields. Lo! I found one! Run by local farmers and in the shape of the communal palloza! Eureka!
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| Home for the night! |
I checked in as a few hikers were leaving. "Smells like cows!" said one disgusted American. Another hiker turned her nose up at the place. I, however, smiled as wide as I could as I approached the desk where a young man in coveralls (a farmer) smiled back. "You like cows?" "Yes!" "Then you are my guest! Welcome to our family albergue." I was shown the neat as a pin bunk room, showers, laundry, and communal dining area. The rear of the building was glassed in to provide pilgrims with a panoramic view of the hill and valley where prized dairy cattle were grazing. Home!
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| Front row seat to bringing the herd in. |
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| A hunting hound! |
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| When all is done for the day, everyone gathers to eat! |
At seven, after the herds had been led home to the barn, the pilgrim laundry had been done, all were showered and changed from their hiking or working clothes into clean clothes, the whole village of 10 farmers and 24 pilgrims ( we more than double the village population each night) gathered in the round barn , beautifully reconstructed as a dining hall. The wives appeared with their tan faces and huge smiles carrying pots of cabbage and chard soup with white beans. Then came the FRESH MILK for those like me who don't drink wine. Then beef, peas and carrots, fresh baked bread, and for dessert - almond cake! My first Torte de Santiago of the trip. Mmmmmmm!
Thoughts for the day:
I just wanted to be somewhere that felt like home. Not being able to see the Highlands upon entering Galacian made me a little sad, but I felt right at home as soon as I had found the cattle village of Fonfria. I was reminded of my Amish neighbors and their prize Swiss Browns, the homey feel of hill and valley, the sounds and smells of a working farm community. As we are all pilgrims, traveling through this journey we call life, there are those places that center us, people who are family or who are familiar. Fonfria was that place for me and though I may never pass through this place again, for at least a night, I felt I had come home to a place I knew like my own. Cows, hounds, and smiling, generous farmers.
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| Galacian high country at last! |
