In the early 1860’s France, Spain, and England sent armed forces to Mexico, “to protect the interests of their nationals” doing business in the young nation. Since some of these nationals were bakers, this episode is known as the Guerra de los Pasteles (the Cakes War). Among the Spanish forces was a young ensign, Valentín Domínguez, from Zorita de los Canes, who upon seeing the beauty of the New World deserted the expeditionary force to establish himself in the small mountain town of Huatusco, in the highlands of the state of the coastal state of Veracruz, where he found a bride and a new life growing coffee. It was also here that his nine children were born.
Back in his hometown just enough news were received from him to raise him to the status of legend. There are vague recollections that he came back to Spain once, in a crisp white suit and Panama hat, the very image of a successful plantation owner. Finally, in 1907, a letter and photograph were sent, to inform the relatives in Spain of his death. The photograph was duly saved among the pages of the family Bible, and the legend of “the family in America” acquired the patina of old age.
In the meantime, in Mexico, the sons and daughters of Valentín had children of their own, and they grew up hearing the story of the ensign who had deserted, and how he had come from Zorita, and over the generations they spoke of “the family in Spain”. One of the sons of Valentín was Anastasio, who in turn had a daughter named Guillermina, who in turn had a daughter named Norma, who in turn had a son named Horacio Ferriz Domínguez.
Thirteen years ago, on my first trip to Spain, I drove to the northern provinces looking for the birthplace of my great-great-grandfather. I did find a Zorita, and eagerly asked and old man if the Domínguez family still lived there. No, there had never been a family of such name in the town, not even 100 years ago. A few years later, my parents came to Spain to celebrate their Gold wedding anniversary, and duty bound they rented a car, drove to southern Spain, found another Zorita, and suffered the same disappointment: No Domínguez family had ever lived there. Finally, a few months ago, a cousin broke the news that he had found the right Zorita, by the shore of the Tajo River, less than 100 km east of Madrid. My cousin had visited the place and made contact with the family, and from him I got the e-mail of a cousin and made a preliminary contact myself.
And that is why today I woke up early, rented a car, and drove east of Madrid in search of my roots. I ended driving too far to the northeast, but “preguntando se llega a Roma”, and after a bit of backtracking I finally came into Zorita de los Canes, a charming and very small village at the foot of a knoll dominated by the ruins of an old castle. There were also arrows pointing the visitor to the archaeologic zone of Recópolis, so I figured I would do a bit of exploring of the surroundings before immersing myself in family matters.
Recópolis is an amazing site. It was established in the VI century, by King Leovigildo, after he completed the Visigoth conquest of the Iberian Peninsula to form the first Spanish nation (the Visigoths were among the Germanic peoples who spread through the late Roman Empire in the IV century, to later expand into Iberia). Recópolis was to be the fiefdom of the crown prince, and grew into quite the busy town. Nearly a 200 years later, in the VIII century, Arab tribes conquered Spain and turned Recópolis into one of the main hubs of the califate of al-Andalusí. The Arabs were expelled from this part of Spain in the XI century, at which time the Knights of Calatrava took over the region, and moved the settlement a few hundred meters to the knoll of Zorita de los Canes, where they built a castle. The castle and the surrounding town flourished up to the XIV century, and were known for the rather large number of Jews who settled there. At this time a small church was built over the ruins of the Visigoth church of Recópolis, which during the XV and XVI centuries became the hub for celebrations throughout the region, who came to “the old city” to be merry, even though all visible signs of the Visigoth town had long been buried by soils and debris.
Reeling with the impressive history of little Zorita de los Canes I finally walked into the village. An old gentleman was working in his garden, and after saying hello I took the opportunity to ask for directions to the house of Petra Domínguez. He looked at me for a moment, and then said “She is my sister. My name is Aurelio Domínguez” “Well, then you must also be my uncle. I am Horacio Ferriz Domínguez.” He gave me a big smile and told me that his sister had been waiting for me all morning, and had just gone down to the road to take another look. And then family started flocking in. I greeted Aunt Petra, then Cousin Miguel, then Aunts Cristina and Matilde, then Cousin Laura and Aunt Isabel. It was the most delightful and long delayed family reunion one can imagine. They were all tickled pink to greet one of the long lost relatives from Mexico, and I could see strong family resemblance between them and some of my aunts back in Mexico.
We all went to Aunt Petra’s home, where lunch was all ready, and started cross-referencing family connections. Oh, yes, the memory of great-uncle Valentín was very much alive, and later Aunt Cristina produced the original 1907 photograph of my great-great-grandfather, a man with a magnificent moustache. I also had the chance of showing them photographs of the family, which my thoughtful daughter had loaded on my computer.
Alas, I may have met the last generation of Domínguez that can be expected to live in Zorita. Most of the youngsters have left the town, which officially counts with 107 inhabitants, but in reality has only 30 permanent residents. The aunts are all in their late 70s or early 80s. Cousins Miguel and Laura are slightly younger than I am, but their grownup children have already moved out of the town toward the larger cities. They come to visit, of course, but they cannot be reasonably expected to come live in Zorita for good. But it still is, and will always remain, the land of one of my forefathers.
I am insanely happy at having had the opportunity to touch base with the family in Spain. They are charming and generous, and I would very much like to come and visit them again, but this time in company of my daughter and her husband, so links can be forged among the new generations. There is something amazing at finding that the roots of your family tree are deep and strong, and that those that drank life from the eternal waters of the Tajo River, probably since the VI century, are still in place.
Finis
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Day 14. Santiago de Compostela a Madrid
Oh sadness. Today in the morning we returned the bikes and felt somewhat empty not pushing our noble steeds up the streets of Santiago. To reduce my sadness let me reflect on what it involved:
Time: We figured it took us 9 days of actual travel. In retrospect, it would have been better to plan 11 days; one to take a break mid way, and the other to travel to the coast at the end of the trip.
Equipment: We rented the bikes from TourNRide in Santiago, and the bikes they provided were excellent. Have them provide panniers, helmets, and pedals, but bring your own seats. They provide basic tools and one spare tube. The small levers to change a tune were of plastic and pretty useless, so make sure to bring metal ones.
Gear: Thanks to Norma and Evan we brought only the bare essentials and at times it seemed too much. The list included:
- Boots, which you will be wearing. Don’t use biking shoes. You will be walking a third of the time, uphill and on slippery slopes, so you will need good hiking soles.
- A small sleeping bag because some hostels don’t have blankets
- A small towel
- Two biking shirts (not three, not four, but two). All biking stuff is made of synthetic materials that dry pretty fast (or not if it is a cold and dreary day). One of the two you are wearing at any given time, and that is true of all items below.
- One camelback backpack (priceless!)
- Two biking shorts (the ones with padding in the butt)
- One pair of long pants
- One pair of shorts
- Two pairs of undershorts
- Two pairs of biking socks
- Two long-sleeve shirts
- One felt vest
- One rain jacket and pants
- One pair biking gloves
- One pair wool gloves (some mornings are really cold)
- One pair biking leg warmers
- One pair biking arm warmers
- Toiletries
- Small bag of clothes soap (you will have to wash every day)
- Camera and charger, and USB memory stick for backup
- iPod and charger (my trusty travel companion, but optional)
- Computer and charger (optional, but otherwise you would not be getting my updates)
- Sun block
- Dark glasses
- Money (lots of money!)
Planning: Damn the planning! Go with the flow and seek shelter wherever the night catches you. It is part of the fun. No need to bring GPS, maps, or travel books; just follow the yellow arrows.
Company: It is absolutely necessary to have a super companion, like Raúl. Look for someone who is stout of heart, good natured, intelligent, curious, lover of good food, tuned into nature, optimist, and not a complainer. Remember, El Camino is not a destination, but a quest, and to get the most of it you want an akin soul by your side. I am reminded of the words of a song from my youth, who advised “Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar.”
Both Raúl and I are amazed at the fact that we completed such a long way without mishap. Think about it. 550 km is like biking from Mexico to Guadalajara, San Francisco to Los Angeles, or Frankfurt to Paris!
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and after a walking visit to Santiago, which is a lovely city, we took a taxi to the airport, boarded the plane to Madrid, and were back in the real world. We came to the house of Maria Eugenia and Juan, Raúl packed his bags, and I walked him to the metro, where he left for the airport and Barcelona. He is a good friend, and I look forward to our next adventure (we are toying with the idea of a trek to the Himalayas sometime in the next couple of years).
I had some money burning a hole in my pants, so I wandered to Puerta del Sol, the tourist center of Madrid, and performed the last ritual by going into El Corte Inglés to buy the poem El Cantar del Mío Cid, and a pan to make tortilla española (I plan to poison my daughter with it when I get home).
When Juan came home, around 8:30 pm, we took a stroll down to the Rio Manzanares and the newly improved river park, and then went for tapas into a tiny neighborhood bar, El Delfín. The owners, Paco and Carmen, are old friends of Juan, and elbow to elbow in the crowded small place we enjoyed tapas of Callos a la Madrileña, Caracoles en Caldillo, and Braised Lamb Livers. Oh, how I am going to miss the good Spanish food.
Time: We figured it took us 9 days of actual travel. In retrospect, it would have been better to plan 11 days; one to take a break mid way, and the other to travel to the coast at the end of the trip.
Equipment: We rented the bikes from TourNRide in Santiago, and the bikes they provided were excellent. Have them provide panniers, helmets, and pedals, but bring your own seats. They provide basic tools and one spare tube. The small levers to change a tune were of plastic and pretty useless, so make sure to bring metal ones.
Gear: Thanks to Norma and Evan we brought only the bare essentials and at times it seemed too much. The list included:
- Boots, which you will be wearing. Don’t use biking shoes. You will be walking a third of the time, uphill and on slippery slopes, so you will need good hiking soles.
- A small sleeping bag because some hostels don’t have blankets
- A small towel
- Two biking shirts (not three, not four, but two). All biking stuff is made of synthetic materials that dry pretty fast (or not if it is a cold and dreary day). One of the two you are wearing at any given time, and that is true of all items below.
- One camelback backpack (priceless!)
- Two biking shorts (the ones with padding in the butt)
- One pair of long pants
- One pair of shorts
- Two pairs of undershorts
- Two pairs of biking socks
- Two long-sleeve shirts
- One felt vest
- One rain jacket and pants
- One pair biking gloves
- One pair wool gloves (some mornings are really cold)
- One pair biking leg warmers
- One pair biking arm warmers
- Toiletries
- Small bag of clothes soap (you will have to wash every day)
- Camera and charger, and USB memory stick for backup
- iPod and charger (my trusty travel companion, but optional)
- Computer and charger (optional, but otherwise you would not be getting my updates)
- Sun block
- Dark glasses
- Money (lots of money!)
Planning: Damn the planning! Go with the flow and seek shelter wherever the night catches you. It is part of the fun. No need to bring GPS, maps, or travel books; just follow the yellow arrows.
Company: It is absolutely necessary to have a super companion, like Raúl. Look for someone who is stout of heart, good natured, intelligent, curious, lover of good food, tuned into nature, optimist, and not a complainer. Remember, El Camino is not a destination, but a quest, and to get the most of it you want an akin soul by your side. I am reminded of the words of a song from my youth, who advised “Caminante, no hay camino. Se hace camino al andar.”
Both Raúl and I are amazed at the fact that we completed such a long way without mishap. Think about it. 550 km is like biking from Mexico to Guadalajara, San Francisco to Los Angeles, or Frankfurt to Paris!
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and after a walking visit to Santiago, which is a lovely city, we took a taxi to the airport, boarded the plane to Madrid, and were back in the real world. We came to the house of Maria Eugenia and Juan, Raúl packed his bags, and I walked him to the metro, where he left for the airport and Barcelona. He is a good friend, and I look forward to our next adventure (we are toying with the idea of a trek to the Himalayas sometime in the next couple of years).
I had some money burning a hole in my pants, so I wandered to Puerta del Sol, the tourist center of Madrid, and performed the last ritual by going into El Corte Inglés to buy the poem El Cantar del Mío Cid, and a pan to make tortilla española (I plan to poison my daughter with it when I get home).
When Juan came home, around 8:30 pm, we took a stroll down to the Rio Manzanares and the newly improved river park, and then went for tapas into a tiny neighborhood bar, El Delfín. The owners, Paco and Carmen, are old friends of Juan, and elbow to elbow in the crowded small place we enjoyed tapas of Callos a la Madrileña, Caracoles en Caldillo, and Braised Lamb Livers. Oh, how I am going to miss the good Spanish food.
Day 13. Arzúa to Santiago de Compostela (40 km)
We did start a bit earlier than usual, and it is still dark. It is Sunday morning, so the few cars we see on the road are of those who caroused all night, and we are weary of drunk drivers. Finally it gets clear enough that we can see the yellow arrows that have guided us throughout the route, and we can take the pilgrims path. But it has been raining for two days, so the path is muddy and slippery. I feel tempted to keep to the highway, but Raúl is a purist and prefers following the path through the mountains.
The day is overcast, and there is a gentle drizzle, but the country we are moving through is glorious. At some point the sun breaks through the clouds and the pasture fields blaze like emeralds surrounding old stone farms from which issue columns of smoke rich in comfort and fragrant with breakfast. We have not had breakfast, or coffee, because every bar we pass is closed.
The drizzle is intensifying, and without really noticing we are getting wet. It is borderline between drizzle and rain, so I decide not to use my rain jacket. It is a bit cumbersome and makes me sweat, and I am sweating enough with the ups and downs of the path. We are done with the big mountains, but there is enough relief here that for every descent to a valley there is a walking ascent to the next ridge. It is slow, slippery work, and despite all our efforts the morning is ticking away.
Finally we find a place that is open, sometime around 10:30 am, and we gratefully gulp cups of café con leche. The friendly bartender also fixes us an appetizer of jamón serrano and cheese, which restores our much diminished strength. Alright, this is it, Santiago or bust.
It was almost bust, because now it is raining on earnest, and pretty soon we are soggy wet. But we press on, with the interminable up and down, until finally we make it to Lavacolla (32 km). The story goes that this is the last big stream before Santiago, so pilgrims took the time to make their ablutions (hence the name, which in Spanish means “clean your butt”) and made themselves presentable for coming into Santiago. The good Lord has taken care of our ablutions with his rain, and still dripping we push up the last hill. It may be the last hill, but it is interminable. All our forces are spent and we climb it with our hearts.
Finally we reach Monte de Gozo (37 km). From here, we are told, the pilgrims got their first sight of Santiago, and rejoiced at having reached their long awaited destination. I am not sure where to look, because it is quite hazy, but another rejoicing pilgrim points toward some distant pines and says “There, to the right of the pines, you can see the tower of the Cathedral.” My God, it must be several hundred miles away!
One last push and . . . we did it! Covered with glorious mud we enter Santiago de Compostela, sometime around 2 pm. 550 kilometers in nine days, and with only three flat tires. We barely remember the fluvial valley of Burgos, the hot meseta of Castilla, the fertile plains of León, the snow storm in Cruz del Ferro, the valley of the Knights Templar, the insane climb to O Cebreiro, and the grueling ridges and valleys of Galicia. We are here!
After unloading our few worldly and soggy possessions at a convenient hotel, and spreading them out to dry like if it were the laundry yards of Mumbai, we headed to the Cathedral to give thanks and to complete the rituals of the pilgrim. Our credentials are examined, and we declare that we have done the trip from Burgos for cultural and religious reasons, and in exchange we receive a certificate that goes back to the Middle Ages, in which it is stated that Raúl and Horacio (names written in Latin) have completed the pilgrimage to Santiago “pietatis causa” (for reasons of devotion).
The last step, which we gratefully do, is to hear mass in the magnificent Cathedral, and to pray for those for whom we have made the pilgrimage. We missed the Pilgrims Mass, Sunday at noon, and have instead come to the 7:30 pm mass, but it is a solemn act nonetheless, and a fitting finale to a most remarkable trek.
The day is overcast, and there is a gentle drizzle, but the country we are moving through is glorious. At some point the sun breaks through the clouds and the pasture fields blaze like emeralds surrounding old stone farms from which issue columns of smoke rich in comfort and fragrant with breakfast. We have not had breakfast, or coffee, because every bar we pass is closed.
The drizzle is intensifying, and without really noticing we are getting wet. It is borderline between drizzle and rain, so I decide not to use my rain jacket. It is a bit cumbersome and makes me sweat, and I am sweating enough with the ups and downs of the path. We are done with the big mountains, but there is enough relief here that for every descent to a valley there is a walking ascent to the next ridge. It is slow, slippery work, and despite all our efforts the morning is ticking away.
Finally we find a place that is open, sometime around 10:30 am, and we gratefully gulp cups of café con leche. The friendly bartender also fixes us an appetizer of jamón serrano and cheese, which restores our much diminished strength. Alright, this is it, Santiago or bust.
It was almost bust, because now it is raining on earnest, and pretty soon we are soggy wet. But we press on, with the interminable up and down, until finally we make it to Lavacolla (32 km). The story goes that this is the last big stream before Santiago, so pilgrims took the time to make their ablutions (hence the name, which in Spanish means “clean your butt”) and made themselves presentable for coming into Santiago. The good Lord has taken care of our ablutions with his rain, and still dripping we push up the last hill. It may be the last hill, but it is interminable. All our forces are spent and we climb it with our hearts.
Finally we reach Monte de Gozo (37 km). From here, we are told, the pilgrims got their first sight of Santiago, and rejoiced at having reached their long awaited destination. I am not sure where to look, because it is quite hazy, but another rejoicing pilgrim points toward some distant pines and says “There, to the right of the pines, you can see the tower of the Cathedral.” My God, it must be several hundred miles away!
One last push and . . . we did it! Covered with glorious mud we enter Santiago de Compostela, sometime around 2 pm. 550 kilometers in nine days, and with only three flat tires. We barely remember the fluvial valley of Burgos, the hot meseta of Castilla, the fertile plains of León, the snow storm in Cruz del Ferro, the valley of the Knights Templar, the insane climb to O Cebreiro, and the grueling ridges and valleys of Galicia. We are here!
After unloading our few worldly and soggy possessions at a convenient hotel, and spreading them out to dry like if it were the laundry yards of Mumbai, we headed to the Cathedral to give thanks and to complete the rituals of the pilgrim. Our credentials are examined, and we declare that we have done the trip from Burgos for cultural and religious reasons, and in exchange we receive a certificate that goes back to the Middle Ages, in which it is stated that Raúl and Horacio (names written in Latin) have completed the pilgrimage to Santiago “pietatis causa” (for reasons of devotion).
The last step, which we gratefully do, is to hear mass in the magnificent Cathedral, and to pray for those for whom we have made the pilgrimage. We missed the Pilgrims Mass, Sunday at noon, and have instead come to the 7:30 pm mass, but it is a solemn act nonetheless, and a fitting finale to a most remarkable trek.
Day 12. Ventas de Narón to Arzúa (37.5 km)
Morale is high! We have had a good night sleep and our hostess tells us that after a short climb we will be going all the way down to Melíde. Unfortunately she is a compulsive liar and pretty soon we start going up and down small valleys and intervening ranges. It is tiresome pushing up a somehow steep slope for about 500 meters, then zipping down another 500 meters, and then starting all over again. We love the country, but our forces are waning away at an accelerated pace. The sky is overcast but the rain is holding.
Finally we make to Melíde, and just as we are entering the town Raúl gets a flat. God looks over his pilgrims, though, because 50 m away there is a bike shop, and right in front of it is one of the best pulperias in the country. A pulpería is a restaurant that specializes in pulpo (octopuss), which is first boiled until tender, then sliced, passed over hot olive oil, and served with paprika powder and coarse sea salt. We had a heavenly lunch!
Then we go back to the roller coaster, climbing painfully, flying down slope, and then climbing again. We are worried we are not doing good time, since our goal is to reach Santiago today.
Entering Arzúa I get a flat. I filled the flat tire with foam, and it seems to be holding, but the repair shop in Arzúa is closed and we are told he won’t open until Monday. Raúl is hungry so he suggests having dinner and observing the tire. We dine, and coming out find that (a) it is raining, and (b) the tire has lost some air. Raúl suggests we stay here for the night, replace the tube in the tire, and try to start early tomorrow. Argh, so close and yet so far!
We only have 40 km to Santiago, but here we are at 5 pm, having changed the inner tube (messy because it was the rear tire, and we had to deal with the chain, the gear assemblage, and all the grease), and all we did today were 37.5 km. We will have to see if we can start real early tomorrow to make for the lost time.
Finally we make to Melíde, and just as we are entering the town Raúl gets a flat. God looks over his pilgrims, though, because 50 m away there is a bike shop, and right in front of it is one of the best pulperias in the country. A pulpería is a restaurant that specializes in pulpo (octopuss), which is first boiled until tender, then sliced, passed over hot olive oil, and served with paprika powder and coarse sea salt. We had a heavenly lunch!
Then we go back to the roller coaster, climbing painfully, flying down slope, and then climbing again. We are worried we are not doing good time, since our goal is to reach Santiago today.
Entering Arzúa I get a flat. I filled the flat tire with foam, and it seems to be holding, but the repair shop in Arzúa is closed and we are told he won’t open until Monday. Raúl is hungry so he suggests having dinner and observing the tire. We dine, and coming out find that (a) it is raining, and (b) the tire has lost some air. Raúl suggests we stay here for the night, replace the tube in the tire, and try to start early tomorrow. Argh, so close and yet so far!
We only have 40 km to Santiago, but here we are at 5 pm, having changed the inner tube (messy because it was the rear tire, and we had to deal with the chain, the gear assemblage, and all the grease), and all we did today were 37.5 km. We will have to see if we can start real early tomorrow to make for the lost time.
Day 11. Triacastela to Ventas de Narón (57 km)
We slept like logs, and were much recovered by the morn. Our spirits plunged, however, when the weather forecast predicted heavy rain in Galicia. Rats! We tried to depart early (8 am), and made record time to Samos (10 km), where there is a magnificent Benidictine convent. Unfortunately we got there at 9 (my Mom would have called us Los Abominables Hombres de las Nueve), and the earliest we could visit the convent was at 10 am. We were on a hurry to recover the lost time and advance as much as we could before the stormy weather caught up with us, so we contented ourselves with taking lots of pictures from the outside.
We made Sarria (21 km) by 10:30 am. Not a pretty city. Just the type of agglomeration of apartment buildings that I have come to dislike. So we crossed it quickly, and embarked on a very pretty route through the hills. The sun was holding despite the weather forecast, and for the next 40 km we did all that a good bicigrino is expected to do. We went through beautiful valleys, where cows where happily munching away, and charming hamlets of milking farms (the danger of going through cow country is that you have to be very careful where you roll; that next clump of dirt could have your bike smelling for hours!). We went down slopes covered with flowers, grunted up hillsides, walked through mud carrying our bikes, biked along the middle of the road/stream (a clever invention of the Gallegos to make the road and the stream follow the same path, to conserve space), defied dead coming down slippery slopes, and overall had a good time.
We got a bit wet around lunch time, when we arrived to Portomarín (41 km at 275 m elevation), an interesting town on a hill overlooking a dry dam. We later learned that the reservoir had been emptied to make repairs in the penstocks, but it was very strange to see the drying skeleton of what must be a pretty lake. On further inquiry I learned that the old Portomarín lies buried in the sediment of the dam, and that the Romanic Church in the plaza of the new town was brought in from the old town stone by stone! We had a good lunch of Empanada Gallega (filled with bacalao) and Lecón Asado for Horacio and Caldo Gallego and Merluza en Salsa Verde for Raúl, and with full bellies we were ready to resume the road.
And then it happened all over again. We had to climb from 275 m to 650 m in 13 km, so we pushed, and pushed, feeling the strength drain from our limbs. Then, when we thought we could not push any further, there would be a short flat stretch where we could mount our faithful steeds, only to find around the bend another slope, longer and steeper than the previous one. Our hopes of advancing significantly toward Santiago were dashed, and as we reached the crest, around 6 pm, we were delighted to see a small rural hostel a few hundred meters away, in Ventas de Narón (57 km at 625 m elevation). We dragged ourselves in and found another of the many families of friendly Spaniards, where were absolutely delighted to see a pair of tired pilgrims, and offered us a cheery bed in their empty hostel, a warm shower, and a typical Galicia meal. And just as Raúl was taking his shower a veritable deluge fell on the small town. We were so glad we had reached shelter on time!
We made Sarria (21 km) by 10:30 am. Not a pretty city. Just the type of agglomeration of apartment buildings that I have come to dislike. So we crossed it quickly, and embarked on a very pretty route through the hills. The sun was holding despite the weather forecast, and for the next 40 km we did all that a good bicigrino is expected to do. We went through beautiful valleys, where cows where happily munching away, and charming hamlets of milking farms (the danger of going through cow country is that you have to be very careful where you roll; that next clump of dirt could have your bike smelling for hours!). We went down slopes covered with flowers, grunted up hillsides, walked through mud carrying our bikes, biked along the middle of the road/stream (a clever invention of the Gallegos to make the road and the stream follow the same path, to conserve space), defied dead coming down slippery slopes, and overall had a good time.
We got a bit wet around lunch time, when we arrived to Portomarín (41 km at 275 m elevation), an interesting town on a hill overlooking a dry dam. We later learned that the reservoir had been emptied to make repairs in the penstocks, but it was very strange to see the drying skeleton of what must be a pretty lake. On further inquiry I learned that the old Portomarín lies buried in the sediment of the dam, and that the Romanic Church in the plaza of the new town was brought in from the old town stone by stone! We had a good lunch of Empanada Gallega (filled with bacalao) and Lecón Asado for Horacio and Caldo Gallego and Merluza en Salsa Verde for Raúl, and with full bellies we were ready to resume the road.
And then it happened all over again. We had to climb from 275 m to 650 m in 13 km, so we pushed, and pushed, feeling the strength drain from our limbs. Then, when we thought we could not push any further, there would be a short flat stretch where we could mount our faithful steeds, only to find around the bend another slope, longer and steeper than the previous one. Our hopes of advancing significantly toward Santiago were dashed, and as we reached the crest, around 6 pm, we were delighted to see a small rural hostel a few hundred meters away, in Ventas de Narón (57 km at 625 m elevation). We dragged ourselves in and found another of the many families of friendly Spaniards, where were absolutely delighted to see a pair of tired pilgrims, and offered us a cheery bed in their empty hostel, a warm shower, and a typical Galicia meal. And just as Raúl was taking his shower a veritable deluge fell on the small town. We were so glad we had reached shelter on time!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Day 10. Cacabelos a Triacastela (57.5 km)
We are dead tired. Today was the most grueling day we have had since we started. The day started like any other day, with a good breakfast and departure from Cacabelos around 8:30 am, under a cloudy and menacing sky. We were happy going on flat ground, when all of a sudden the road goes up a hill. Rats! We dismounted and pushed up the hill, which is a fairly tiresome thing to do first thing in the morning. Then we reached Villafranca (8 km and an altitude of 500 m), a beautiful mountain village with a Franciscan convent established by Saint Francis himself.
From Villafranca we followed the canyon of the Valcarce River, which is deeply incised unto the mountains. It was a beautiful ride through the trees, but we were going upriver, slowly gaining elevation. We arrived in Las Herrerias (25 km and 650 m altitude) in good cheer, had a good early lunch with cold cuts, and gained the intelligence that following National Route VI was too dangerous and longer than if we took the short, steep, and paved road across the mountains.
Famous last words! Steep does not make justice to the “wall” we were pushing our bikes on. In three kilometers we reached an elevation of 775 m, and another four kilometers would bring us to the lofty altitude of 1,100 in Laguna de Castilla. The slope was brutal (12 to 15%), and I had to push the bike up using the old trick of counting steps. One, two, three . . . 39, 40. Stop. Take five deep breaths. Start again, one, two . . .
We finally made it to Laguna de Castilla, a group of five houses, when it started to rain. The rain was light, but the cold wind drove it into our bones. Adelante! Three more kilometers, with an elevation gain of 200 m to gain O Cebreiro (35 km and 1,300 m altitude), the first town of Galicia. We were now way up in the clouds, blind with fog and rain. Fortunately there was a bar, so we were able to warm up a bit, with coffee for Raúl and warm wine with sugar for me. For a moment we toyed with the idea of calling it a day then and there, but it was only 4 pm and staying would put us hopelessly behind schedule.
So we pressed onward, and within a couple of klicks we had come out of the clouds and were even blessed with some sun. Now we had the chance to admire the beauty of Galicia, a green and blessed country where every hill is draped in emerald green, interrupted only by the brown stone walls erected in time immemorial, which dissect the landscape like veins. The hills are immense, the slopes are infinite, the canyons are deep, and the clouds had lost their menacing air.
But our pain was far from over, because we dropped in elevation, trudged up again for nearly a kilometer, dropped once more, and had to crawl one last time two kilometers of painful slope. I was so glad to have Raúl for my partner in pain, because tired as he was he never lost his good humor and his geologist eyes.
The last part of the day was heavenly. A 15-km down slope, where we were able to fly with the bikes. The downhill was pretty steep (7%), so we flew cautiously, pressing hard on the brakes and hoping they would hold. Finally we made it to Triacastela (55 km and 600 m elevation), where we engaged a small apartment in a pensión, to recover and dry our soggy clothes.
From Villafranca we followed the canyon of the Valcarce River, which is deeply incised unto the mountains. It was a beautiful ride through the trees, but we were going upriver, slowly gaining elevation. We arrived in Las Herrerias (25 km and 650 m altitude) in good cheer, had a good early lunch with cold cuts, and gained the intelligence that following National Route VI was too dangerous and longer than if we took the short, steep, and paved road across the mountains.
Famous last words! Steep does not make justice to the “wall” we were pushing our bikes on. In three kilometers we reached an elevation of 775 m, and another four kilometers would bring us to the lofty altitude of 1,100 in Laguna de Castilla. The slope was brutal (12 to 15%), and I had to push the bike up using the old trick of counting steps. One, two, three . . . 39, 40. Stop. Take five deep breaths. Start again, one, two . . .
We finally made it to Laguna de Castilla, a group of five houses, when it started to rain. The rain was light, but the cold wind drove it into our bones. Adelante! Three more kilometers, with an elevation gain of 200 m to gain O Cebreiro (35 km and 1,300 m altitude), the first town of Galicia. We were now way up in the clouds, blind with fog and rain. Fortunately there was a bar, so we were able to warm up a bit, with coffee for Raúl and warm wine with sugar for me. For a moment we toyed with the idea of calling it a day then and there, but it was only 4 pm and staying would put us hopelessly behind schedule.
So we pressed onward, and within a couple of klicks we had come out of the clouds and were even blessed with some sun. Now we had the chance to admire the beauty of Galicia, a green and blessed country where every hill is draped in emerald green, interrupted only by the brown stone walls erected in time immemorial, which dissect the landscape like veins. The hills are immense, the slopes are infinite, the canyons are deep, and the clouds had lost their menacing air.
But our pain was far from over, because we dropped in elevation, trudged up again for nearly a kilometer, dropped once more, and had to crawl one last time two kilometers of painful slope. I was so glad to have Raúl for my partner in pain, because tired as he was he never lost his good humor and his geologist eyes.
The last part of the day was heavenly. A 15-km down slope, where we were able to fly with the bikes. The downhill was pretty steep (7%), so we flew cautiously, pressing hard on the brakes and hoping they would hold. Finally we made it to Triacastela (55 km and 600 m elevation), where we engaged a small apartment in a pensión, to recover and dry our soggy clothes.
Day 9. Rabanal del Camino to Cacabelos (48 km)
Last night it started raining. I could hear it from my bunk at the hostel. Fortunately the sound stopped after a few minutes and I slept the sound sleep of the ignorant. It had stopped raining because it had started snowing! When we got ready to go in the morning the whole world had turned white! Well, if you must, you must. So we got on our way . . . wait . . . my front wheel was a bit low, so I had to pump some air in it. Raúl was of the opinion that we should change the inner tube right then and there, but I was eager to start and poo-pooed the idea. Famous last words!
We got on our way, on foot, pushing the bikes against a freezing head wind. The slope was too steep for us to ride, so we walked, and walked, and walked, all the time pushing the bikes up an 8% slope. Then I realized that there were little bubbles coming out from every little crevice on the front wheel. Rats! I hate it when Raúl is right!
By this time we were close to the pass, and we were facing a serious gale that, blowing through the pines, chilled us through the bone. Fortunately we found a frozen town near the crest, and after forcing our way into an abandoned porch we were able to shelter ourselves out of the wind to change the inner tube (a 3-ring circus in itself, because the crappy wedges the rental company had given us would bend each time we put any stress on them).
We pushed on. Exhausted and chilled to the bone, we faced what had now turn into a blizzard that was sweeping the crest of the high mountains. We were tired beyond tiredness, and pushed on out of pure piss and vinegar, neither of us willing to admit that we were dead tired or stone cold. The landscape was surreal. The kind of icescape one would expect in the exploration of Antarctica. But we pushed on, laughing and taking pictures, while our limbs became numb with the cold. Finally we made it to the top, and from there we could ride the bikes. But it was like riding down from the high Sierra, with the cold wind biting our faces, legs, arms, and hands. Crossing the mountains has never been for the faint of heart, but this time we outdid ourselves.
Of course, there is a certain reward to doing feats of courage in Europe. A mesón is never too far away, and we did find one 10 kilometers down the road, in a small hamlet called El Acebo (16.5 km). As soon as we walked in, the friendly bar woman placed big plates of steaming soup in front of us, and at my request warmed some wine with sugar and orujo (the local Schnapps) in the microwave, and a few minutes later we were able to thaw from the inside out. I could have stayed there forever, in this small warm heaven inside the frozen wilderness of the Cantabrian mountains.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, so after an hour of heaven we went out there, to brave the elements. By then, however, the furies had relented, and all we saw were the last flecks of snow turn into a light, cold rain. Incidentally, while we were there we had adopted a young Spaniard, who was freezing on the bike, so we jerry rigged some plastic gloves for him with an old supermarket bag, and shepherded him down the mountains until the slopes became more genteel, just as we reached the town of Molinaseca (25 km). Nice town, Molinaseca, with a narrow “Main Street”, and very nice views over the river.
Eventually we made it to Ponferrada (31 km), where we saw the castle of the Knights Templar, and the Basilica of the Blessed Mother Mary. Legend has it that one of the Knights Templar came to the town, and inside an old tree trunk he found an image of Mary, and that is why Ponferrada was established. For us it will also be the place where we had another fine meal of rice and calamari cooked in their own ink, some type of veal cordon bleu, and pimento peppers stuffed with fish. And then there was the wine, and the dessert, and the coffee, and the . . . What a civilized place is Spain!
We pushed another 15 kilometers to Cacabelos (48 km), where we found a wonderfully luxurious hotel to recover our strength. We are going to need all the recovery we can muster, because the daily effort is beginning to tell, and we still have 180 km or so to Santiago.
We got on our way, on foot, pushing the bikes against a freezing head wind. The slope was too steep for us to ride, so we walked, and walked, and walked, all the time pushing the bikes up an 8% slope. Then I realized that there were little bubbles coming out from every little crevice on the front wheel. Rats! I hate it when Raúl is right!
By this time we were close to the pass, and we were facing a serious gale that, blowing through the pines, chilled us through the bone. Fortunately we found a frozen town near the crest, and after forcing our way into an abandoned porch we were able to shelter ourselves out of the wind to change the inner tube (a 3-ring circus in itself, because the crappy wedges the rental company had given us would bend each time we put any stress on them).
We pushed on. Exhausted and chilled to the bone, we faced what had now turn into a blizzard that was sweeping the crest of the high mountains. We were tired beyond tiredness, and pushed on out of pure piss and vinegar, neither of us willing to admit that we were dead tired or stone cold. The landscape was surreal. The kind of icescape one would expect in the exploration of Antarctica. But we pushed on, laughing and taking pictures, while our limbs became numb with the cold. Finally we made it to the top, and from there we could ride the bikes. But it was like riding down from the high Sierra, with the cold wind biting our faces, legs, arms, and hands. Crossing the mountains has never been for the faint of heart, but this time we outdid ourselves.
Of course, there is a certain reward to doing feats of courage in Europe. A mesón is never too far away, and we did find one 10 kilometers down the road, in a small hamlet called El Acebo (16.5 km). As soon as we walked in, the friendly bar woman placed big plates of steaming soup in front of us, and at my request warmed some wine with sugar and orujo (the local Schnapps) in the microwave, and a few minutes later we were able to thaw from the inside out. I could have stayed there forever, in this small warm heaven inside the frozen wilderness of the Cantabrian mountains.
Alas, all good things must come to an end, so after an hour of heaven we went out there, to brave the elements. By then, however, the furies had relented, and all we saw were the last flecks of snow turn into a light, cold rain. Incidentally, while we were there we had adopted a young Spaniard, who was freezing on the bike, so we jerry rigged some plastic gloves for him with an old supermarket bag, and shepherded him down the mountains until the slopes became more genteel, just as we reached the town of Molinaseca (25 km). Nice town, Molinaseca, with a narrow “Main Street”, and very nice views over the river.
Eventually we made it to Ponferrada (31 km), where we saw the castle of the Knights Templar, and the Basilica of the Blessed Mother Mary. Legend has it that one of the Knights Templar came to the town, and inside an old tree trunk he found an image of Mary, and that is why Ponferrada was established. For us it will also be the place where we had another fine meal of rice and calamari cooked in their own ink, some type of veal cordon bleu, and pimento peppers stuffed with fish. And then there was the wine, and the dessert, and the coffee, and the . . . What a civilized place is Spain!
We pushed another 15 kilometers to Cacabelos (48 km), where we found a wonderfully luxurious hotel to recover our strength. We are going to need all the recovery we can muster, because the daily effort is beginning to tell, and we still have 180 km or so to Santiago.
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