Camino Ingles Ferrol to Pontedeume – 31km

Today is our first full day on the Camino. Our backpacks are full, bladders are empty and feet are itching for the road. But first, a taxi to the port where the route starts proper. It’s too far to walk.  We find the port, we find the tourist office, we find the route but do we find the start? Not exactly. I had heard that the start was hard to find but I admit I found this a bit worrying. What hope did we have if we couldn’t find the start? We could have asked the very helpful lad in the tourist office but the fact that the taxi driver didn’t seem to know what we were talking about when we mentioned the Camino made us a bit nervous so Tony just got a stamp and a heap of maps and we made our own start.

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Ruth doing her best pretend face that we are the start of the Camino

Unbeknown to us, we walked right by the start marker as it is hidden in plain sight beneath a parasol outside the cafe beside the tourist office. Over the next 112km, when the climbs got steep and my spirits were dampened by rain or Ruth’s incessant cursing, the idea would creep into my head that we hadn’t even started in the right place and that we were only pretend pilgrims and none of this really counted.

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Missed that

But for now, we were on our adventure. The sun came out to smile on us as we followed the arrows and Camino shells that dot the route at every junction. Tony and James bomb ahead. Ruth and Gemma follow while myself and Tina set a comfortable snail pace at the rear. For most of the Way of St. James, this is the order we walk in.

We stroll through the waking town and along the high walls of the Navantis shipyards where the Spanish Navy built warships and torpedoes. We walk down by the bay and stop at the first water point because our pale ass Irish bodies are roasting already and need to lose some of the layers. Other pilgrims walk by us, giving the traditional “Buen Camino”. This is pleasing, as a couple were following us up until then and I didn’t want them blaming us if they ended up lost with us. But in fairness, once you are on the Camino Ingles, it’s next to impossible to get lost with all the yellow arrows spraypainted everywhere. It’s like a graffiti yellow brick road. Unless you are James and Tony and the trail frenzy takes over and you miss the turnoff and have to backtrack.

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Howayiz lads. This way.

It was around about this time that we met our first obstacle – a McDonalds. Set in an industrial estate off the route, on a Sunday in Spain when everything is closed, this was never going to be a runner. Nevertheless, Tony and James’ feet seemed to once more have a mind of their own and off they trotted with renewed vigour. I followed, dear reader, but just to keep an eye on them. They were lost in dreams of salty fries and juicy burgers cooked just the way they liked them until we saw the Closed sign. As we walked back the way we came out of the corner of my way I’m sure I could see other peregrinos shaking their heads.

They say that the Camino follows the path of life and this is true. Along the Camino Ingles, we discovered that the route takes what we referred to as “maddening loops”. One minute you are at point A and you go on a long walk to point B and walk all the way to point C which is a 100m from point A and you just stand there thinking of all the steps you just took carrying a heavy rucksack and where you have ended up and you go “Well, shite to that anyway”.

The landscape out of Ferrol is enjoyable if you are into traditional Galician industrial estates. These consist of overpass motorways, bridges and rail tracks. The air is warm and the sound of cars zooming by above us is gentle and relaxing, like iron mosquitos. The first hill comes as a shock, through a residential area that made you hope all the cars have good handbrakes. We take the climb in our stride and skip down the other side to follow the water edge until we reach a scenic part of the route that hides the local metal works. We can now see across the bay and walk through parkland to cross the stone bridge that allows us to finally cross the far side of Ferrol to the townland of Neda. I take a picture of a giant magnolia tree which is one of the biggest in Europe just so I can show Tony and James who have bombed off again, but they don’t care.

We stop for lunch in Neda. Well, we stopped for a drink but they seem to give you surprise food everytime you order a drink in Galicia. I sampled the local chickpea stew which had what looked like a lump of pork knuckle in it. Tina got what seemed to be stale bread. It was all a bit random which I have to say I enjoyed. I got chatting to Georgia from Italy who was heading to Cape Finisterre which was another 100km the far side of Santiago.  Suitably refreshed and re-lathered in suncream we set off through Neda which turned out to be a maze of quaint little streets where the locals sat on balconies enjoying the sun and watching us pass by. It’s the type of place with old boot flower pots and lazy cats that makes you go “we should definitely live here”. Until the explosions start. They just let off these loud explosions which google says is something to do with saints days but which makes pilgrims jump out of their boots.

Ahead of Neda is a hoor of a hill, black tarmac rising upwards like a giant snake. It looks steep and long and sore. We put the heads down and go for it. The top, when we get there has a natural resting place and we can look back over Neda, the bay and the route we have followed from Ferrol in the distance. I sit and empty my runner out as I feel like there may have been a tiny speck of something after getting in. This is when James realises that his Fitbit charger is back in the hotel in Ferrol. Another sacrificial deposit to the Way of St. James.

It is downhill to the next townland of Fene. The landscape has more greenery here with the odd stream servicing the outdoor laundries that nobody uses anymore presumably because they all have washing machines in their houses now. We stop at another cafe. This time the surprise food is possibly a fish tart. I empty my runner again and this time take off my sock just in case there is a bit of grit in there. There is no way that I have a blister already. I do not even think about it and eat more fish tart.  It may actually be rhubarb pie. Or Spanish cabbage. I consider swapping my runners for my sandals but there are still about 10km to go and the last time I did that distance in sandals I got a blister. I definitely do not want to get a blister so I put my socks and runners back on and have another piece of tart. I am so focused on not having a blister that I leave my water bottle behind when we set off.

After Fene, we enter our first forest. It is a delight to be off the road and the trail takes us through the cool shade of the sky-high Eucalyptus trees that cover Galicia. These odd-looking Australian trees with the bark that sheds like snakeskin are a welcome change from the hard roads. But today the woods do not last long.

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We enter another industrial area with boiled tarmac, stone steps and a roundabout back onto the main road. About 3pm on the Camino your body starts to sing. The song will not be one that you enjoy and it will drown out most thoughts. I wanted to ask Ruth what the muscle is called behind the knee and if it could possibly snap like a guitar string pulled too tight, but Ruth looks like she has her own problems. Her hips have set themselves into the same sort of rolling groove that Mam walks with. Except it is exaggerated with the weight of a rucksack for 20km. I can feel a definite sting on the sole of my foot but I’m saying nothing because these feckers will leave me behind to die in the dust.

Up ahead we see Tony waiting on the side of the road with Georgia and the German. Georgia lost the trail and ended up on a motorway before she backtracked to us. She seems frustrated and unhappy. There is some debate about something but I’m too tired to listen and am happy to just sit on a fence for a minute before we head off again in the afternoon heat. This time we see the Camino sign and turn off down a track where everyone buys scallop shells to hang out of their rucksacks and leave money in an honesty box.  Georgia seems to be suffering from trail frenzy and she bombs on ahead as more hills appear.

My calves like the steady plod on the incline and I follow them along like a farmer following cows going for the evening milking. My calves know the way. Slow and steady. Coming down is another story. The sting in my shoe is now a hot knife blade digging into me and my two big toes feel bruised from jamming into the road as I go downhill. As the rest of them motor on I decide to change the runners. There is less than 5km to go and my feet are on fire so the hiking sandals are going to be brought on to get me across the line. Straight away I get that relief that only hikers get when they take the pressure off their feet.

Further down the hill, I find Georgia sitting on the side of the road looking despondent. Her socks and boots are off and she is scrolling through her phone. I check to see if she is ok. She looks like she has been crying but she assures me that she is ok so I hike on and meet Ruth, Tina and Gemma at the next cafe sipping drinks and nibbling on lemon cake. Tony and James text us that they have crossed the bridge into Pontedeume and are in a bar. What bar? The first bar.

The bridge into Pontedeume from the village of Cabanas is long, straight and teeming with schools of fish nibbling on the seaweed under its many arches. We pass lads fishing off the side. Already I can make out our hotel and there in the first bar is Tony and James with drinks in front of them as if they have been sitting there all day. We have walked 31km. None of us has ever walked that distance before and the only thing that died was James’ Fitbit. After all round congratulations, we stretch down before we seize up and get the keys to the hotel rooms.

Taking off the rucksack feels incredible. The shower is full-on and I just stand there for a while feeling my pores drinking in the water and watching the sweat of the day swirl around my poor feet. There is one of those aid bars on the wall for old people and I hold onto it like I’m 87. I’m wondering how messed up are humans when the best way of feeling good is that moment when they stop torturing themselves. My knees are buckling but I make it to the bed and put my feet up. My heels are hanging off the end, weightless, supported and glorying in the luxury of non-movement. My toes can feel the subtle whispers of air that move around them creating slight tingles. My soles start to throb until the whole room disappears and my feet are the only thing left in the universe. I start to snore.

Next up, how to walk.

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Before the Fitbit died

 

4 Replies to “Camino Ingles Ferrol to Pontedeume – 31km”

  1. Loved reading your words Roy, I’m doing a 35km walk next month which will seem like a walk in the park to you now! Sam x

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