The Road Hotel (Pension Rua) is just inside the city limits of Arzua, Spain, on the left, at the top of a long, long, long walk across the beautiful green valley just east of town. We approached the valley in awe of the view. Then someone noticed that the peak of the other side was higher than the location from our viewing point. And Kate’s words came back to us from our last stop in Boente: “This last 8 kilometers (5 miles) is down and up and down and up and down and… up.” There was a slight hesitation and a British-tinted accent on that last “up.” And for good reason.
We walked in the front door at 8:30pm – exactly eleven-and-one-half-hours after we set out this morning. A considerable amount of those eleven-and-one-half-hours were spent on our “pies”… putting one foot in front of the other, marching to Santiago. The first three coffee bars were closed, so it was nearly noon before our first stop – and a rather-usual 3:00pm before lunch. That left us with 13.6 of our 27.5 kilometers (17 miles and a little change) to complete after 4:00 p.m. According to Tony and Kate’s pedometer the day took at least 44,974 steps. But who’s counting.
Along the way, a biking pilgrim (that’s bike con pedals, not bike con rumble!) stopped to inquire of Bennett: “Quantos an[y]os tiene?” When I told him our boys were 12 and 10 years old, his eyes widened. “Y quantos kilometers… hoy?” Our noticeably young fellow pilgrims led the way, strengthening their stride as we finally found the Pension Rua: 27.5 kilometers for the day (but were just as glad to see those four beds, lined up like a barracks, as we were!)
We tried to have a coffee in Casanova, in honor of Amy’s Spanish-descended maternal grandfather, Miguel Cassanova, but no one was home.
In Melide, as promised, we dined at the Pulporia. Though the octopus is imported from Morocco, it’s a local favorite, and at the open, street-side window, an employee lifts eight large, purple arms from a steaming barrel and chops it into bite-sized pieces with a pair of scissors, offering samples of the clean, tender, white meat (along with the soft suction cups) to passersby. Covering it generously with olive oil and cayenne, served-up on a wooden plate, it’s ready to be served – and he never slowed his pace throughout our meal. As fast as he could ready a plate, a waitress was there to deliver it, usually along with a bottle of “home brew” white wine, which they serve in white, ceramic bowls.
In the old town of Furelos we viewed the contemporary, life-sized crucifix, depicting a (too graphic) savior, with only one hand nailed to the cross beam, and the other showing a bleeding stigmata, but reaching downward to mediate between earth and heaven. The church attendant was pleased to tell us that though there are three similar crucifixes, this is the only one of its kind – in the world.
So it’s 11:34pm pm as I type, and the boys have just turned in. Because of the customary Spanish siesta, a 10:00pm dinner is not uncommon – even if you’ve walked 48 miles in the last three days and can hardly keep your eyes open till the first course is served.
At this point, we have 40k left to walk… and at this point, a 20k day sounds like a gift from heaven.
Just like today.
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