Camino Portugués Day 4 - São Pedro de Rates to Barcelos

Yesterday afternoon and evening I was afflicted with the anxiety that sometimes strikes me on these walks. It’s not attached to a particular thing, more a feeling of unease and lack of confidence, making me want to withdraw from my surroundings. Fortunately, (or not) I’ve felt it before, and so was pretty sure that it would pass. Like knowing that my backpack will feel lighter, I knew that my psyche will feel easier too - and that it was probably all the adjustment going on with being on my own and doing a big thing. And so it was, after an early night, things felt fine this morning.  I had an early communal breakfast with the others in the hostel, we were Belgians, Americans, Mexican and German - talking about whose country’s politicians are the most embarrassing. The Belgians were feeling pretty pleased with their lot - I didn’t mention their historical work in the Congo.

The village was busier with cars compared to yesterday, but the path pretty quickly took a side street and then a rough track through agricultural areas, fields gleaming in the cool morning. I took a photo, only to have a huge lorry necessitating me to flatten into the verge and hold my breath.

The coastal path of the first two days was lovely, but felt very much about tourism as opposed to a pilgrimage. This central route is quite different, it feels ancient, and meant for the walkers who travel along it. A park for pilgrims gave shade, poetry and benches, and in return many had left many tributes, including single boots.

The path wound past stands of pine and eucalyptus, with roses and vines in the gardens to the sides.

I’d been worried that I’d feel there were too many people on this Way, and that it wouldn’t give me the peace I enjoy when I walk. Not this morning. I was the only peregrina within view. At one point I stood in the cool of the shade looking over to the next little village. I could only hear bird song and cockerels, no cars or talking. Even if the rest is busier, this morning was blissful.

Passing the village of Courel, at which  I was told there were only 208km to Santiago, the path shared its space with a little stream. I’d seen pictures of this last month after the heavy rains Portugal had endured, where this section was a torrent, leading to me bringing wet feet contingencies. No need to, as the stream had learnt to share nicely, there was plenty of room for dry footed pilgrims.

There is absolutely no danger of getting lost, the correct path is often marked multiple times, and the wrong routes are also indicated with crosses, including at places you would not have thought anyone would consider walking. This means you can get your head out of a map or an app and just walk. A lot of the time I didn’t know where I was (nothing new there) or what was coming up next. It was liberating.

There were a few little hills today, none that felt a problem. I felt strong and fit. Some walkers were really labouring though - I admired their determination. But I know there are some much more demanding ones to come that will test me too.

In Pedra Furada there is a little church next to a stone with a central hole. According to my Cicerone guide book, part of which I am carrying in my pack for just this eventuality, one of the legends tells a story of a saint who was buried alive in a stone tomb, and, determined to live, used her head to pierce a hole in the stone. The explanation raised far more questions than answers. There was a great looking bell to which was attached a rope within reaching distance. I so wanted to ring it, but my British sense of decorum held me back.

At the first cafe that was open I saw Elsie from yesterday, and another couple of pilgrims I’d met before, enjoying a sit down and a drink. There was a large picture of Elvis Presley on the wall. I took a photo for my brother Nick, long term fan, and commented about him to the restaurateur. She looked at me blankly. Maybe they don’t pronounce Elvis’s name the same in Portuguese. She then mysteriously took all the change out of my wallet to convert it into paper money, unsolicited.

There was a bit of road walking today, necessitating ducking into the verges and gullies when the lorrys thundered past. Just as I was getting a bit bored of this it was good to see a cobbled road leading off the main thoroughfare.

At the same time, periodically hazy skies brought the temperature down, it was perfect walking conditions. I was very much making the most of it, as the forecast is to be ten degrees hotter in a couple of days time.

Through Pereira, another peaceful village with amazing plants, later possibly identified as Brazil’s White Angel trumpets?

I’m always drawn to graffiti under motorways. This gnomic offering gave me pause for thought once translated. ‘I am light, I come from the light, I am a fruit but also a tree’ Considering this, I walked on. I have been walking a bit more slowly than usual today,  feeling very relaxed.

I paused for yesterday’s croissant on a bench and caught up with another German peregrina who was happy that today was a shortish day, as she had done a big one yesterday. There’s always something to chat about, in the brief moment of connection before one person walks on a little faster than the other. The path continued to be well marked, though less beautiful, weaving through an industrial estate, between a Staples and a Renault garage before ducking under another busy road.

Barcelinhos, just outside its bigger brother, had many buildings that were in a state of disrepair.

This was not the case just across the river in Barcelos, which is a smart looking town.

It is very much caught up with the Legend of the Cockerel. It’s a long story, but is to do with a miracle when a roast chicken dinner came to life and crowed. This has resulted in large sculptures of the happy bird all over the town, and indeed as a symbol of Portugal.

I had a look at the view over the river Cavado and then thought I’d look for some lunch.

Wandering into a square, I had a look at a menu on a cafe table, and was called over by Jill, who asked if I’d like to join her. I definitely did, and we then had a really good conversation for a couple of hours, covering grief, aging, betrayal, the Samaritans, walking, riding and the author Ken Follett. It was just the sort of encounter that I hoped to have on the Camino, and I wish her all the best on her journey.

I had just got to my hostel in the centre of town when I heard ‘there’s Jane!’ Kurt and Deb from yesterday were also staying there.  It was so lovely to feel I belong here, that I am part of this walking community.

After the normal admin of washing myself, whilst listening to my soap’s exhortations, and then more importantly washing my clothes (my new Merino wool T shirt feels lovely but smells like a wet sheep when I get hot) I took myself out again to explore the town, taking in a sneaky pastel de nata (first today!) with a welcome cup of tea (first in Portugal!).

And then a lovely ten minutes in the big church by the river, the Igreja matriz de Barcelos.  There was a recording of plainchant playing, and I could just sit quietly in the cool and let it wash over me before heading back to put my feet up before dinner.

I went out looking for a pilgrim’s menu restaurant, and instead was persuaded by a couple of American girls that I would love the food in a small locals restaurant on a side street. The waiter was most attentive, though pretty shocked firstly that I was eating alone, and secondly that I was walking the Camino alone. Maybe he was trying to raise the spirits he presumed must be lowered by my tragically solitary situation, by giving me a gigantic plateful of food and a glass of wine that could be more accurately described as a bucket (this photo was after I’d already given the wine a good go) Reader, I finished it all.

Stats

Distance travelled - 10 miles / 16 km

Total ascent - 784 feet / 240m

Local tipple - a bucket of vinho verde