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I had a dickens of a time finding a place to stay on this day. The day had started well, with me being overjoyed that I had to cinch up my now-too-big shorts with an extra boot lace, but the joy lessened considerably a couple of hours later, when I could not get the knot untied while dancing from foot to foot in the six-foot-ferns-and-thorny-primrose powder room.
I arrived at San Mamed by 10:00 a.m., but it was way too early to stop, so I kept walking to Sarria, where I arrived by noon and once again ran into the giddy French teen scouts. I should have stopped there and then, but, because I still had plenty of energy, I chose to soldier on to Barbadelos. What a mistake, as every albergue beyond Sarria was full!
I galumphed along monster-like as fast as I could from town to town, randomly thinking things like, "How funny it is that a cow is braying in Brea"; "Eight euros is an awful lot for a peregrino to have to pay for a horse stall to bed his horse"; "That gray-haired man in the plaid skirt up ahead looks like he is wearing a Catholic school girl outfit" and that sort of rot.
"Completo." Next town. "Completo." Next town. "Completo." Now and again I would encounter the same Spanish family of Trekkers on the road. Each time, the father, worried about my foot, would tell me to slow it down. I would smile, nod, and thank him for his concern, but the truth was I could not afford to slow down, because every minute I fell behind others was a bed l would lose at an albergue and more kilometers I would have to walk on.
I walked awhile with an Irish school teacher named Yvonne. She was very pleasant and caring and was a terrific lot of fun to chat with. I was sorry when her friends urged her onward, away from pokey me. She said that they had a lot of kilometers which they were hoping to cover that day. Little did I know at that point that I would wind up having just as many.
Twenty-six kilometers later, I stopped at a cafe in Ferrerios, where I had a bowl of caldo gallega, a salad, a slice of almond torte, and a couple glasses of water. It was the first time I had eaten all day. The cafe owner told me that he had heard all of the albergues in the next town were also full.
By the time I finished my meal, it was 6:00 p.m. Realizing the prospects of finding a bed were slim, I got back on the road anyway and began to walk the next nine kilometers to Portomarin. What else could I do? "Every day is something different," I thought, "a new challenge." Strangely, I was not too worried, because I was growing to be open to what each day on the Camino offered. That said, I realized there was a very good chance I would be sleeping outside that night and that it would be spooky and cold. "At least the moon is big," I consoled myself and then wondered if there would be wolves.
Although my foot fiercely hurt, I enjoyed the walk very much. It was the first time that I had faced a lowering sun and had walked toward longer and skinnier shadows. Furthermore, as the hard trail loosened, sparkles began to peek out of the sand, which made me think of my dad. All along the Camino I had felt him-- in the sun on the ripened grain, in the summer rain, in the scent of farmland soil, in the morning's hush, and now here in the diamond glints in the sand.
On I hiked to Portomarin, singing aloud to old Keith Green hits. The last stretch I walked was across a long skinny bridge high, high, high above a waterway. It was terrifying. I could not look down. There were horses in the grass at the water's edge, but I could not look over the edge to take their pictures or to even look at them.
I had a dickens of a time finding a place to stay on this day. The day had started well, with me being overjoyed that I had to cinch up my now-too-big shorts with an extra boot lace, but the joy lessened considerably a couple of hours later, when I could not get the knot untied while dancing from foot to foot in the six-foot-ferns-and-thorny-primrose powder room.
I arrived at San Mamed by 10:00 a.m., but it was way too early to stop, so I kept walking to Sarria, where I arrived by noon and once again ran into the giddy French teen scouts. I should have stopped there and then, but, because I still had plenty of energy, I chose to soldier on to Barbadelos. What a mistake, as every albergue beyond Sarria was full!
I galumphed along monster-like as fast as I could from town to town, randomly thinking things like, "How funny it is that a cow is braying in Brea"; "Eight euros is an awful lot for a peregrino to have to pay for a horse stall to bed his horse"; "That gray-haired man in the plaid skirt up ahead looks like he is wearing a Catholic school girl outfit" and that sort of rot.
"Completo." Next town. "Completo." Next town. "Completo." Now and again I would encounter the same Spanish family of Trekkers on the road. Each time, the father, worried about my foot, would tell me to slow it down. I would smile, nod, and thank him for his concern, but the truth was I could not afford to slow down, because every minute I fell behind others was a bed l would lose at an albergue and more kilometers I would have to walk on.
I walked awhile with an Irish school teacher named Yvonne. She was very pleasant and caring and was a terrific lot of fun to chat with. I was sorry when her friends urged her onward, away from pokey me. She said that they had a lot of kilometers which they were hoping to cover that day. Little did I know at that point that I would wind up having just as many.
Twenty-six kilometers later, I stopped at a cafe in Ferrerios, where I had a bowl of caldo gallega, a salad, a slice of almond torte, and a couple glasses of water. It was the first time I had eaten all day. The cafe owner told me that he had heard all of the albergues in the next town were also full.
By the time I finished my meal, it was 6:00 p.m. Realizing the prospects of finding a bed were slim, I got back on the road anyway and began to walk the next nine kilometers to Portomarin. What else could I do? "Every day is something different," I thought, "a new challenge." Strangely, I was not too worried, because I was growing to be open to what each day on the Camino offered. That said, I realized there was a very good chance I would be sleeping outside that night and that it would be spooky and cold. "At least the moon is big," I consoled myself and then wondered if there would be wolves.
Although my foot fiercely hurt, I enjoyed the walk very much. It was the first time that I had faced a lowering sun and had walked toward longer and skinnier shadows. Furthermore, as the hard trail loosened, sparkles began to peek out of the sand, which made me think of my dad. All along the Camino I had felt him-- in the sun on the ripened grain, in the summer rain, in the scent of farmland soil, in the morning's hush, and now here in the diamond glints in the sand.
On I hiked to Portomarin, singing aloud to old Keith Green hits. The last stretch I walked was across a long skinny bridge high, high, high above a waterway. It was terrifying. I could not look down. There were horses in the grass at the water's edge, but I could not look over the edge to take their pictures or to even look at them.
About 8:30 p.m., I arrived in Portomarin. As expected, I found all of the albergues full. As I wandered the streets, looking for a place to stay, a kind young man saw me and brought me to a sports gym, which was filled with peregrinos who had been unable to find shelter elsewhere. Drippy clothes hung on makeshift clothes lines around the gym. Exhausted peregrinos washed up in locker rooms and rested on royal-blue gym mats. The young man who had brought me there told me to take his mat, but I found another. He then brought me medicine gel to put on my foot.
An old man whom he was with then came to me and told me to take three long deep breaths. He said something more to me in Galega, which I did not understand, and then he laid his hands on my foot and did his own breathing thing. Right then and there, the old man drew all of the pain from my foot! I have yet to know what happened. I had read stories before going on the trip about Galician healers and their miracles. Was this man a healer? Had he performed some kind of hypnotherapy? All I knew was that I was tremendously relaxed after he had finished his treatment and that he seriously had taken all of the pain out of my foot.
As the afternoon had worn on, I had been reassured again and again in my spirit that it would all be okay. In fact, I actually had been expecting some kind of surprise. My foot had been quite bad. Throughout the entire trip I had asked God to teach me to master my pain as a mind-over-matter thing. I had been unsuccessful mastering the pain as such, but, even so, there had been a provision for my pain on this day. While I surrendered to the old man's miraculous therapy, I knew that his was the surprise I had been waiting for.
All in all, I walked thirty-five kilometers (twenty-two miles) from just-beyond Samos to Portomarin this day. Thirty-five kilometers was way too many miles for my bad foot; regardless, the day was filled with zest, grace, magic, esteem-bolstering, delicate memories, and spiritual intimacy. Quite lovely, really.
An old man whom he was with then came to me and told me to take three long deep breaths. He said something more to me in Galega, which I did not understand, and then he laid his hands on my foot and did his own breathing thing. Right then and there, the old man drew all of the pain from my foot! I have yet to know what happened. I had read stories before going on the trip about Galician healers and their miracles. Was this man a healer? Had he performed some kind of hypnotherapy? All I knew was that I was tremendously relaxed after he had finished his treatment and that he seriously had taken all of the pain out of my foot.
As the afternoon had worn on, I had been reassured again and again in my spirit that it would all be okay. In fact, I actually had been expecting some kind of surprise. My foot had been quite bad. Throughout the entire trip I had asked God to teach me to master my pain as a mind-over-matter thing. I had been unsuccessful mastering the pain as such, but, even so, there had been a provision for my pain on this day. While I surrendered to the old man's miraculous therapy, I knew that his was the surprise I had been waiting for.
All in all, I walked thirty-five kilometers (twenty-two miles) from just-beyond Samos to Portomarin this day. Thirty-five kilometers was way too many miles for my bad foot; regardless, the day was filled with zest, grace, magic, esteem-bolstering, delicate memories, and spiritual intimacy. Quite lovely, really.
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