Wednesday, 14 September 2016

The Last Post.

On the 7 September 2011  I set out to walk the 780kms from St Jean Pied Port to Santiago de Compostela which set in train a series of treks for charity which resulted in my covering over 2200 miles and raising through the kindness of others £25,000.  Today, I have reached the last mile of the final Camino and my mind wanders back to the first day of the first Camino.

Climbing over the Pyrenees in 30c heat that did not abbate for  the 21 days it took me to get there. There have been some experiences on the way, such as on my second day into the Camino Frances when I went into a small shop in  an isolated village with my rucksack on and managed to demolish the place by knocking over one shelf and, while swinging around to see what I had done, several other too. The fierce heat and strong wind of the Meseta has also burned itself into my memory, As has Finding a memorial in a wood to a man who had died on the Camino and taking a fir cone from his memorial stone with me leave at Santiago

My undying memory of the Camino Portuguese is the cobbles. Millions of them, that set my feet on fire. And sleeping in a hostel with  a room full of women, none of whom snored.

In the French  Cevennes on the Robert Loius Stevenson trail I twisted my knee sufficient to bring me to tears and was rescued by two elderly spinster twin sisters who found a doctor to sort me out and send me on my way. It was ironic then that later I ruptured my quadrecept and was forbidden from walking hills, which resulted in a mind numbingly boring walk along the Nantes to Brest canal to raise money.

The 1100 kilometres of the via de la Plata was an endurance test but the decision to cut to the north west and stay at the disintegrating monastery at Osiera gave a spooky and fascinating insight into the rapidly disappearing world of the dozen or so Benidicteen monks still there. But the first day out of Seville, when the rain had turned the track into a quagmire and the mud  stuck to my boots making them feel like concrete blocks almost had me looking for flights home.

On the English route when I presented my dead friend's stamped up pilgrim passport and asked for a Credentia for him. You would have thought I had asked to have tea with the pope. But I do pride myself that they did something they have probably never done in  fourteen hundred years. And that is  get two names on one credentia.

I have sleeped with a thousand different people in a hundred different beds, and navigated 1000"s of kilometres across  Spain with no map or compass but armed only with trust that the thousands of yellow arrows I was following would lead me to where I wanted to go.

And above all, when the spirits were low there were the FaceTime evening talks with my wife and my daughter that were jewels of light at the end of hot and exhausting days.

Now it is over and I have one more duty to perform.

For the last time I remove my friend's ashes from my rucksack and head down to the rocks at Cabo  Fisterra. I tip them out and they drift towards the sea. Soon the tide will take them to other oceans.

This was a man whose two most used phrases were, 'What's the problem?' And 'How can I help?'

I try to think of something to say. I know he would not appreciate a prayer. I borrow from the poet Rober Frost.

And now, my friend; you've no more promises to keep
Nor miles to go before you sleep
Nor miles to go before you sleep..

The chapter is now at an end and the book has been closed. I wipe the moisture from my salt stained cheeks, undoubtedly a bit of sea spray, and give him one final wave before turning away and starting the long journey back to my family.

You can see my video of thisxwalk at

Monday, 12 September 2016

Part nine.

Photos on public Facebook page.  Photos From the English Camino.

First, and most importantly. Thank you to the person who donated to one of the charities I am walking for. You didn't leave your name but I very grateful to you. Thank you. And thanks to all the others who did leave their names. I can assure you that as I pay all my own expenses every penny donated goes to the charity.

Last night  I had dinner  in the hotel and the Spanish waiter was a classic. He was around 60 years old, 5ft 4" with long dark hair and back horn rimmed glasses. He sported a 1939 dictator mustache and wore a black waistcoat, pinned stripped trousers and an opened neck, used to be white shirt.

He was on his own and was attempting to serve a table with ten on. Four with a four on, a few with two on and me, with one one. He dashed between tables muttering to himself constantly. The menu was in Spainish. I could make I out two salads but not the third. That, I was told was sup. 'Sup?', I queried. "Si, sup.' He made a up and  down movement to his mouth while making a sucking sound.  I got it soup. Fantastic. I would have that. Ten minutes later I got a Russian salad. My soup or sup for one was on a table for ten and, as they were Irish and very polite were spooning it from the metal bowl while wondering who was going to raise the subject with the moustachioed waiter who was approaching a table of four with what I think may have been fish. But it was waving around so fast in his hand it was difficult to see.

Eventually I got my sup, sorry, soup. Enough, I would add, for ten. I helped myself to thee portions of delicious vegetable broth overflowing with cabbage, potato, and leeks. Gosh I love this peasant food.
Realising his mistake the metal bowl from which I was about to take a forth portion was whipped from under my nose. The Irish by this time were well into the vino and didn't appear to care what they were eating.

Other customers were tapping their fingers on pristine white table clothes totally unsullied by the food they had ordered ten minutes earlier. Our frantically overworked waiter looked around the room and made for the loudest drumming. He was obviously an expert in the art of the nightly cock up.

Next was the main course. 'Fish' he said pointing at something uniteligable to me on the menu. If I had dared ask what type I could have ended up missing my flight home. So to be on the safe side I ordered the speciality of the house. A Milinasy. It turned out to be chips with a what could possibly have been,  although without a public health examination there was no knowing,  pork. Whatever it was I would have preferred the soup back.

I didn't have the heart to look around the rest of the room, for fear I might see the skeletons of those that never got fed and others hurridly making nooses out of napkins.  I scoffed my ice cream, never knowing what ruzz or pludding might be.

When it came to paying the bill it was a bit of a stand off. It was 12 euro. I proffered  a twenty euro note. I got three euro coins in change. I waited. He looked at me, we were bull and
matador. Eventually he placed a five euro note on the table. It would appear I was the matador. I collected up, the note and left. The quite guffaw as the three euro coins were scooped off the table made me realise that perhaps, after all, the bull had won.

At the end of the day deservedly so. He worked jolly hard dancing around the room before stopping to peer, Meercat like around him to see who was missing what', and checking that the right food has landed where it should have!

The meal was not that good and the only thing that I remember that was good was the house white wine. And the only other  thing I remember before crashing out is that before quaffing it I had taken two paracetamol and one ibuprofen before the meal for my Swollen knee. How I managed to wake up, let alone get up the following day I shall never know.

Now I have to make a mad dash for it. The weather today is not too bad and I think I can get in a 32kms dash to the next town. That leaves another 32kms on Tuesday when they are forecasting heavy  

I breakfasted with the Irish contingent. They were all from Cork and had a lovely lilting accent. It was like sitting at a table  full of Terry Wogans. At 0700 I was out the door and into the dark. Through the town gates and into the woods. Now I had a problem. My head torch was not working and it was like walking into a tin of black paint. Opposite the entrance to the wood was a gaggle of  Spanish  ladies, one of whome had a head torch. I entered the wood and waited. Sure enough I found by keeping a little distance ahead she would light my way. I was lucky. Very lucky, for close to my right was a steep bank that was impossible to see without a light. I kept just far enough ahead not to be a threat eventually coming back  to a road where I could pick up the concrete way markers.

The ladies were making a ferocious noise behind me. Every single one of them was talking, very  loudly, and at the same time. No one was listening. As we passed through a small village bedroom lights would come on. I'm surprised they did not get covered in night soil.

It was getting lighter and I could manage on my own. Through farmyards with concrete paths that cats had trod on before the concrete had set. Through pine woods and small hamlets. All the time my boots pounded a metronomic and hypnotic beat. The weather closed and became cold and misty that soon became a drizzle that got into the bones. The smell of pine intermingled with wood smoke and silage. Huge machines with  vicious looking teeth swept through fields out of which tractors emerged, their trailers full with mashed sweetcorn.  And all the time the drizzle and mist swirled into every bone and sinew.

At 1400 I reached my destination and threw myself into the room.  It had been a cold wet miserable day. Which was just about how I felt.

Checking on google maps it looks like a six hour, 30kms trek to The town of Finesterre. You won't want to read about me walking on the black stuff so my final blog will be in two days time.

Sunday, 11 September 2016

Part eight

Photos at Facebook page. Photos from the EnglIsh Camino.

I don't normally suffer from melencholy but I did today. Usually when I reach Santiago I am flying home the following day. This time I would be walking way from it. And it's at this time I start to look forward to the 'Shall we have a cup of tea in the garden, or that spontaneous no reason cuddle, and even, 'could you please put the toilet seat down. ' So, every step away from that seemed somehow not right. Then of course the friend chipped in. 'You're not walking away. You said we were going to Finesterre  and that's what we are doing. So in fact  every step is taking you closer to home, not further away.'  There was a logic to that.  I was walking in the wrong direction but getting closer to home.

I called into the cathedral at around 0730. It was empty save for one lady taking photographs. I asked her if she would take one of me leaving some ashes of my friend by the alter. She was from Canada so language wasn't a problem. She duly took the photos and she asked for my story. I told her. Before I could take a breath she had hold of me in a bear hug. She was strong well built lady who could rip out fir trees and milk two cows at a time while standing up.  I gasped for breath which she took as emotion and held me tighter. By the time she let go I felt as if I had been in a trouser press.

There were tears running down her face and by now the whole situation was beginning to get to me. I didn't have the heart to tell her that neither my friend or me were particularly religious and that the leaving of the ashes was  symbolic of our arrival at a point we had planned to be at together had he lived.

Fearing being nearly crushed to death for a second time I kissed her cheek and beat a hasty retreat for the exit.  And as I descended the ramp by the Parador in the main square the sun came out. I pulled back my shoulders, tightened the straps on my rucksack and headed of for the coast.

Further into the county the sun had not yet broken through and I was enveloped in mist. The familiar pattern of eucalyptus forest, farm track and country road was followed with gusto. There was not too much to do so I was entertained myself by annoying the dogs in the numerous houses along the route.

There were a variety of breeds but they all responded to being looked at and spoken to. They would run the length of the garden fence twisting and snarling and all the time I held my hand sufficiently close to keep them interested. Dogs, seemingly miles away would then join in. It was like the howls from hell. I know this was not very pilgrim like but it did pass the time.

As did calling into a small bar for breakfast. Coffee, of course, but I fancied a sandwich. I could see a mountain of them under some cling film but they were all salami or ham. I wanted cheese. The owner dug  through the stack to the bottom and produced a cheese sandwich the size of a small submarine. Crunching into it was like shattering glass. Bits went everywhere, including bits of cheese  onto the floor.  There was no way I was going to waste those so I scraped them up and scooped  them into my mouth.  Time would tell if I would develope boils. I appologiised to the person next to me, who was munching delicately onto a tortilla, and scrapped  all the crunchy crumbs into pile and then into my hand and did anther scoop into my mouth. Mr tortilla looked at me, I smiled at him and told him I was from Germany. He nodded as if saying, 'I thought so.'

Along another isolated lane I came across  a woman standing in the road carrying a yellow flag. I waited and within seconds mountain bikes exploded from a forest track.  Their riders were short, stocky with hairy black legs, pumping for  all they were worth.  Their chiselled features were obscured by wrap around sun glasses and they swooped off into another part of the wood
To be honest, I thought it resembled one of those after shave adverts. All youth and testosteron. Ah, those were the days.

By 1330 I had covered the 24kms and had treated myself to an hotel room.  Only two more days to go but according to the forcast there are clouds on the horizon. Thunder clouds to be exact.

Friday, 9 September 2016

Part seven.

I have lost my iPad charger. Normally that would not be a problem but it would mean I could not write the blog or take photographs. But the really important thing is that I would have to keep it switched off for the duration of the trek as my boarding pass is on it. And... I would not be able to FaceTime my wife and see the dogs, both of which I look forward to at the end of each day.

So I set about getting another. There are no English speakers here, and indeed why should there be. There are very few Spanish speakers in the UK, a large group to which I belong. So it was back to sign language again. I took my eye pad and its lead, complete with its taped bit over wires that became exposed on the via de la Plata last year. I should have bought a new one but plaster is cheaper. I came to a cafe and there I was, not a good sight I have to say. I had lost the top button on my end of day walking shorts so they were hanging on by a thread just below the knees.
I was wearing slippers which I always do because my feet burn like heck at the end of the day, and I was waving a piece of twisted wire in the nose of a nice lady who was trying to sell me coffee and free use of her wifi.

She invited me inside the cafe and gave me the wifi passcode. Fortunately, nearby was a lady who was charging her phone while using it. I pointed to the charger and the pesetas dropped. She pointed me acros the road and mentioned macaroon. I didn't want anything to eat I wanted a charger. Then I realised she was pointing out the colour of the building. In I went in to be greated by a delightful Chinese lady. I wiggled my lead again which by now was looking like a decimated snake and pointed towards the plug socket. She got it in one. She took my iPad from me, opened a box plugged the leads into the iPad and the wall and hey presto a purple light glowed and the charging icon appeared on the iPad.

Now for the cruncher, knowing how Apple like to recognise the exclusivity of their products by their high prices I awaited in trepidation. It cost me five euro. When I got back to the hotel and plugged it in a warning came onto the screen 'This is not an authorised charger and may result
In you receiving a plague of flies. I ignored that. It charged my iPad and the hotel hasn't burnt down yet. So now I feel whole again. Life was much simpler when we just went away, walked around a bit and then came home again.

Today I walk the last 16kms into Santiago. I had taken the precaution of finding the route out and the fact it was as dark as a cow's insides did not effect my direction of travel. Over the bridge and left into the woods.

Then it was plough on head down and thump thump the legs forward. As I walked through yet another eucalyptus forest a Ryan Air jet passed close on its way into Santiago. We both had out flaps out and landing gear deployed. That said, by the time I got to,Santiago, he would be back in London.

Forset, track, lane, road it all melded into one as I skirted under and over the motorway like a serpent on a staff, eventually immerging into the outskirts of Santiago and the inevitable industrial estate. A large factory, belching white smoke into the air drenched the area with the smell of fibre  board.

Then the suburbs, the same the world over. Cars being washed, verges being strimmed and dogs chasing cats up trees. This is the fourth time I have marched into Santiago, each time from a different direction, and each time I stood erect strode in as if I had been out for an afternoon jaunt. I chose to ignore my swollen knee and the blister on either heel. And what a welcome they had laid out  for me.,

The square outside the cathedral was thronged with noisy cheering crowds. In one corner a magnificent troop of young men, dressed in the finery of Cavelry stood proud on snorting prancing horses. I another corner a groups of dancers swirled  and dived like dervishes at a fertility rite. And all the time the packed square pushed and jostled for view of me. I told them it was all too much and that I  had to go and look for a bed for the night and get my credentia for completing the walk. Perhaps I would make a speech later. That seemed to subdue them and, unable to take a selfie with me took one of themselves with the horses.

All along the Way I had been getting two pilgrim passports stamped. One for me and one for my friend. I waited in the queue in the Pilgrim office to get the certificates and  when it was my turn slapped both passports  on the desk. I knew what was coming. They only give certificates to live people.

'Where is your friend?' I was asked.

'He is dead' I replied. A stunned silence followed and I produced a black and gold  rimmed cylinder  with his ashes in. The young girl behind the counter drew back in shock as some of him fell on the counter. An elderly Irish women was  also serving,  and I could see was sympathetic to my plight and put her head  in her hands.

'But you have to walk it' she had recovered some, but not all, of her composure.

'He did walk it. He was in my rucksack walking with me.'

'But he has to be here in person'

'He is, I've shown you, this is the Catholic church, you deal with dead people all the time,  anyway, what's all this business about life after death. If that's true he must be here.'

This was escalating above this poor ladies pay scale and she went to seek help. Five minutes later she returned.

'We can make an exception to make the certificate out to you and put the fact that you dedicate the walk to your friend on the bottom of it. ' I agreed. 'Which one are you?'

For one minute I was sorely tempted but they tried so I played a straight  bat and got my certificate and dedication all nicely written in Latin. The Irish lady smiled and shook my hand.

'I'll be coming this way again next Thursday if you see me don't say anything. '

She smiled again, I think she got the message.  And I think you get the message too. Don't you!

Part six

The last couple of days have been physically draining but I did feel at the end of yesterday's strenuous section better Rhan I did yesterday, which means I am getting my Camino legs. It always starts out like that. I only ever really get going three or four days into the trek.

There is another odd phenomenon. Most of the hostels are full at night yet during the day I hardly meet anyone, save for the occasional farmer. I think different walking pace has something to do with it. I am never refused water but yesterday, at the top of that exhausting climb a farmer offered me a small bag of nuts, trail mix in essence. I thanked him and didn't have the heart to tell him that eating them there and then would send an already burning thirst into overdrive. But it was a kind thought.

I should not suffer the early morning ' How do I get out of this place? ' problems today. There is only one way out and even my rusty radar can find that, the hostel being on a country road a few miles from the town. It is only a few yards from a bar. Now on not really a morning breakfast person but for   The price of a cup of coffee i was able to use their toilet and washroom. The hostel at Bruma was good, but not enough facilities for everyone.

I asked for a coffe and milk and got a question back in return.  I had no idea what I was being asked so simply nodded. It's always worked before. I got a piece of toast the size of a small field and a portion of butter and jam to match. The toast was burnt around the edges and the soft dough had large holes in it where the gas escaped when baking. I peeled back the golden top to the butter and watched as the yellow slab melted into the holes. Then I spread the jam, filling the holes as best I could . I hung over it and inhaled the smell of warm butter and crunchy edges. I took a bite and sucked on it. It was delicious. The fatty butter seeped out of the holes and the jam, silky yet sharp, readily followed. I took another bite and held it in my mouth while taking a gulf of coffee and allowing the coffee to feel the bread, melting it my mouth. I didn't need to chew it it simply slid down.

When finished I wiped the plate with my finger together with some jam that had escaped, sucking on my finger like a calf sucking a teat. Fantastic.

Today was a 25 kms walk to a small town called Sigueiro. A few miles of country Tarmac with the sun rising to my left, and only a small layer of mist hiding the fields. The sun showed red, then yellow and finally white, all the time  warming me. It was level walk, through country lanes where the evocative smell of woodsmoke competed with the eucalyptus and smell of pine. Drovers roads, rough track very narrow with high hedges were surmounted by thin trees through which the sun flickered like someone flashing a pack of cards in front of my face.

I came across a lovely house. Beautiful brown stonework exquisitely pointed with tiny well varnished  brown shutters at the upstairs windows, where, red clay pots sprout a profusion of red and  yellow flowers. I have to say it looked like me in my prime. Alongside was a another building. The red pantiled roof had collapsed and what was left sprouted patches of moss and grass. The windows the eyes of the house, were covered in grime making the view from them myopic. The aged stone walls were building and sagging in the middle. The analogy was not lost on me.

But, that's what time does to one, no good moaning about it.

The rest of the walk was a breeze. Long  stretches of forest track where only the distant buzz in of a chain saw disrupted the silence. There were no other walkers and few residents Thise I did meet posed for a picture or simply slumbered the morning away lost deep in dreams of bygone days. What activity there was done at a leisurely pace. A pushed wheelbarrow here, a horse being given a slow brush down, and even the dogs could only manage one yelp before  dumping their heads back onto
their chains.

After six hours I arrived My destination and found a hotel, the only person snoring tonight would be me. Then I discovered I had left my charging adaptor back at the last hosel. So it is only with the good grace of the owner of the hotel who has lent me is sons lead am I able to get this done today.

I now have to go looking for shop.

Thursday, 8 September 2016

Part five

Photos at Facebook public page entitled.          Photos from the English Camino

The hostel was a delight. In a large granite building that was as pristine outside as it was in. The man in charge showed me to my bunk. I shook my head and pointed to one on the lower level near to the door. Two reasons, I would have plenty of space, and there was no way I could climb up a ladder. The knee that I had ruptured three years ago was beginning to swell up so I needed to treat it with respect.

I consulted my friend. 'Get on with it you wimp.' Well, that was that sorted.

I suspect I am becoming paranoid but I am sure I am being followed around Europe by a man who always gets to sleep before me and snores like a train. It's the same snores and if I could track him down I'd put a bag over his head. Still, I eventually got to sleep.

Today was going to be hard. 27 kms over steep terrain with  25C forecast. As always getting out of the town proved problimatical and today was no different. Down the hill and then ask at the newspaper stand seemed a good idea. I was directed up the road and over a small stone bridge. Then I got into a small lane. Above me a bleary eyed lady opened the windows of her second story flat and peered into the darkness to see me scratching me head. 'Camino? It must have been the rucksack that gave the game away. She pointed behind me and to the right. Soon I was climbing the inevitable steep hill into the mist. It was dark and foreboding and the track into the forest did not look that inviting.

As I entered the branches either side of the track seemed to link up and envelope me, but soon I was on metalled road, small but good walking. Then I had a ' What have I done with my wallet? moment. I stopped and turned everything out of my rucksack onto the wet road.  Nothing. Then all the pockets,  nothing. I had visions of having to retrace the ninety minutes I had been on the road! And then, tucked down into the corner of the sack I found it. Crises over.

The early going was good. I borrowed an apple from a nearby tree and chewed on it, that was breakfast sorted. Walking was now drovers tracks punctuated with minor Tarmac lanes. Everywhere the smell of eucalyptus trees pervaded the air. The way marking was good and progress was swift .

In what seemed like the middle of nowhere I came to a bar, coffee and a slice of home made lemon cake went down great.  This was now beautiful walking country.  The sun was getting high and the mist on distant hills was drifting away to reveal their wooded glory. it was so still I could hear the sweetcorn ripening. The only thing to break the  silence was the sound of an unseen buzzard mewing in the distance. The sweet smell of silage pervaded the air and there was not a person in sight. Only barking dogs and sleepy cats kept me company.

And then I came to the hill. A climb that went up 350 meters in three kilometres. The first part was Tarmac. So steep I thought I might slip back down it. Then it became a twisting stone track. Even steeper. There was no respite from the heat. There was no shade. On many occsions I had to resume the recovery position. Hand on knees and gasp for breath. I sat down, I walked in short bursts, but all the time I was taking little bits out of the hill. Marginal gains. After a very long hour I made it to the top.

Betanzos, where I had started is 30 metres above sea level. Bruma, my destintion, is 477 metres up. It was a gradual climb all the way interspersed with steep sections. But this was countryside to savour and the swollen knee became irrelevant.

Deep in the woods I came upon a cross festooned with votive offerings of scarves, boots and ribbon   This seemed an an aappropriate place for my friend to rest also. Just a little to encourage the weary on their way. He would be good at that.

Another two hours and I arrived at my hostel for the night. Out in the country but with a conveniently located  bar nearby.   A large bowl of country vegetable soup, fried chicken and a carafe of cider drew to a close a very satisfactory day.

Monday, 5 September 2016

Part three

An apology. Blogspot has a mind of its own and always posts the latest post first. Also I. Ant upload photos for some reason so I have created a public Facebook page entitled


Hope this of interest.

Also, please excuse the spelling/grammar and miscellaneous other mistakes. I write this at the end of long sweaty days so I'm not on top of the grammar etc then.

So, to continue day one. This photo is of me and my friend leaving the start line in Ferrol.  A little sprinkle of his ashes and we are off.

Walking out of Ferrol in the dark, bearing in mind in doesn't get light until 8am, was quite challenging. I found the first arrow opposite the magnificent town hall, but from then on it was all keeping the head going up and down like a nodding donkey and hope to see a sign. My intuition took me past the early morning cafes with their reluctant pre work clientele. In those that were empty there was always some one half heartedly cleaning the bar and kicking chairs into place while all the time looking out the door for the first customer.

The navy seems to have taken up all the port here and numerous naval and marine buildings displayed their austere but beautifully powerful archetecture showed a time when Spanish Naval power was at its height. In numerous parade grounds sailors stood on the first parade of the day awaiting orders. Dressed in their summer whites they looked resplendent. Except for one chap who was being quick marched away between two others. At first I thought they were going to raise the flag, but they skirted swiftly across the parade ground and out of sight. Perhaps he had taken too many chips at lunch time. If that was the case I would always be on report.

The town then fell into the routine of so many towns I have walked through in Europe. High rised flats, roundabouts, and supermarkets. These dissolved into small factories of glass makers, car repairers and paint factories. Then, by a convoluted series of lanes and roads I was in the other side of the motorway and in the suberbs. All bungalows, tall walls topped with dark green painted wrought iron fences and all protected by barking dogs. Very sensitive they were too. You only had to pass wind and they were on their hind legs snarling through the fence. Fortunately I like dogs so I did resist the urge to punch them on the little bit of nose they managed to squeeze through the openings. They were after all, only doing what they were fed to do.

Dusty lanes, small forests of Eucalyptus and minor roads took me beside the estuary and onto my first stop at Neda. it was here, bizarrely that I was now walking up the other side of the tide witching Ferrol on the opposite bank. The morning had started out foggy and it persisted until midday when the temperature shot up to over 30C. and goodness did I feel it. 

The climb out of Neda was back breaking and I was bent over, hands underneath the rucksack to support it, and watching the sweat dropping onto my shorts. All the time I was trying to catch my breath. It reminded me of the first day on the Camino France's five years ago when I hauled myself up in similar temperatures wondering what on earth I had taken on.

I was drinking more and needed water. Everyone seemed to be indoors with the shutters firmLy closed. The equivalent a 'Do not disturb sign'. In a small village I came upon an elderly man with his head stuck in the boot of his car opposite what I hoped was his house. I proffered my empty bottle. He took it into his house. Moments later his wife appeared. 'No, no, no. ' so that was that then. Except it wasn't. She was not going to let her husband give me tap water. Only the best water from their well as good enough for this Pilgrim. She brought me one from her fridge in a green bottle that once contained wine. I took a huge draft and smacked my lips. She gave a grunt of satisfaction and 
produced another. I walked off fully satiated. 

It was all down hill to the end of this 29km leg and I was not sorry to hit the magnificent beach at  PONTEDEUME. Where I considered that I deserved a beer and a tapas and an hour in the sun.

Where to stay was the next problem. I eventually came across a bar in the Plaza del Convento. Lunch was being served. The bar appeared to be run by a family. The no nonsense owner , a rugby prop forward of ever I saw one, asked if I wanted to go inside. I nodded . With a tray of drinks in his hand he propelled me through the door.  'Did I have a reservation?' 'No'. He scratched his chin. Got out a book and thumbed the well worn pages. 'Passport'. He demanded. I like that , it means I, going to get a room. His mother led me out of the bar and across the square to another building. She Pointed to the  room number on the key and indicated the third floor, my last challenge of the day.

I dragged myself up the stairs, and slumped on the bed. I was pleased not to have a cat with me as there was no place to swing it. But it had a great hot shower and the bed was comfortable and it had only cost me 15 euros, and, as I fell asleep. To me it was a veritable palace.