So, it’s another hard day and we’re another 30-something kilometers closer to Santiago. The forests are now a mixture of chestnut, oak and eucalyptus. The others I don’t know, but eucalyptus making itself more and more present makes nature more and more Galician, at least in my head.
We’re in an albergue that is a restored St.Antón order’s hospice (those are the ones with a letter Tau as their symbol, but now there’s no trace of them). Big place, run by the municipality, rather fully packed today. The French way converged with the Primitivo back in Melide. The place is called Ribadiso and is right next to the bridge over river Iso. Early pilgrims took to calling it Puente Paradiso, and it looks the part:
I’m starting to get used to the crowds, it’s not easy, but I’m trying to apply my own recipe about loving a place the way it is, people being a major part of the environment now, ever since Sarria.
Many (all?) municipal albergues in Galicia have a strange common denominator: there’s a kitchen (as in: fridge, stove, microwave, tables and cupboards), but absolutely nothing else, nothing to cook in or eat from, nada. Being somewhat aware of that we picked up some things that can be microwaved in a market in Melide. It is basic, but enough, and the best part is that we don’t feel a part of the big scheme once again: many of these small villages have a single bar that serves pretty much same kind of food to pilgrims. Almost all of them are good and honest meals, but still, feels nice to stick it to them every once in a while by eating from a shop, even if I have to carry some extra weight.
Saw a group on horseback earlier. Or, rather, kept seeing them for about half an hour. Beautiful horses, and the guys looked like they knew what they were doing, so it was a bit of a bonus to look at them, balancing out having to step over manure.
If was mostly forest path today, a little uphill, still more downhill…
I keep thinking how different all the different regions feel, the ones we’ve passed. Basque country, Navarra, Rioja, Castilla y León and now Galicia – all seem to have each their own something. You know what I mean? Even I don’t know what I mean. This thought will need some more effort. Galicia most definitely feels like a different place with its eucalyptus trees, its corncribs that people keep mistaking for crypts
(okay, some do have crosses on them, but who would place a dead body in the middle of their garden, in an uplifted container, with ventilated sides, honestly?)
We’re each in top bunks, in a tiny room that has 4 people in total. A bit noisy and disorganised neighbours and (I almost can’t believe it) some American youth are singing Wonderwall outside – I’m not joking. Let’s try to sleep, then…
