Day 24 - 23 May - Lago, Monte Aro to Castro, Dumbria

Another miserable Monday to wake up to. Get dressed in the half light; get into the car barely compos mentis, and prepare for the battle of the M40 and M25. The joy of Staines, and another week on the treadmill of corporate pointlessness awaits. Or as the Sex Pistols so accurately described it..."shovelling shit from one place to another". Well it wasn't really quite as bad as that; but you get the picture?



By contrast, this Monday felt rather similar. Low lying cloud and teeming rain to open the week. With c18k to walk, motivation was low. Actually, non-existent. The forecast gave a glimmer of hope....it might ease a bit in 5 hours time. Seriously, what am I doing here? Especially when the rest of the Iberian Peninsula is sweating in record temperatures.

Have a coffee. Our beautiful smiling host at Monte Aro lifts our spirits as much as she can. It's changed from teeming to that utter shite fine rain that just drenches you without battering you. Sod it, vamos; let's go! Within minutes the rain stops......we're on our way. Poncho's off for profuse perambulation. The rain and drizzle toyed with us all day. The poncho's, however, possess some Harry Potteresque magical power. Rainius pissoffius! Put the buggers on, and within minutes the clouds get scared, inclementicum chokium!


Poncho power personified 




We get to Olveiroa, which is a sod to pronounce....Ol  veer oh ah?? Old Vera for short. Well either way it's an epicentre for magical old stone built Galician grain stores on stilts - Horreo's. I rather love them. Much in the same way that "I dig graves". Wonderfully characterful.






Onwards from.Old Vera. The book just showed a nasty incline. Well I tell you, it was a lovely climb. Along remote paths, surrounded by pines, eucalyptus trees, foxgloves and radiant amarillo gorse. Above us the wind turbines whooshed and whirred. Below, a reservoir that soon became a tumbling  effervescent river heading. towards the Atlantic.




It was idyllic. Beautiful scenery, a pleasant temperature, and I was seriously relaxed. Polepole (slowly, slowly) as they in Swahili! And no, I hadn't been chewing on the eucalyptus like a demented overweight Koala. Although, I am prepared to accept that I am as cuddly as the antipodean space cadets.







We stopped again, just before the big junction - left to Finisterre, right to Muxia. "Yes there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run......"




We chatted with a young Scottish couple from Ayr. Great company! Him a doctor, her a teacher; taking a few months off from slaving for the Government to travel. He was Robbie. And by a strange quirk of fate, whilst talking to him we got a photo from our very own Robbie. A very pertinent photo of him at at a house in Holland where Cate's mum grew up. A place that the Germans evicted them from a couple of times in the war.



We walked on, largely downhill, and within 90 minutes found our place for the night. A lovely rural retreat. And so we sit there with the usual contrasting thoughts and emotions. One more day of walking. Thank heavens? Or sadness, as it's where we are happy. Lord knows?

Is it better to travel, or to arrive? Don't ask me. "I'm just a bunch of words in pants...most of those are fiction"*

Tomorrow, Muxia. I'll tell you all about then.

*Long strange golden road. The Waterboys. Probably their best song ever. Give it whirl.

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