Day three Vilarinho to Barcelos. 17 miles

To finish off last night I had a meal in a local cafe. Soup, spaghetti carbonara, grapes the size of ping-pong balls, all washed down with the local beer for £5. On returning to the hostel madam met me with a hugh carafe of port and some of her home made coconut cakes, all taken on a balmy night in the yellow glow of a flickering candle.

I left at 0600 hours the following day. I knew if I tarried the temptation to stay another night would have been too strong. The day was dull and cold but that meant it was good walking weather. I was now passing through rural Portugal, a mixture of tarmac, rough track and the ubiquitous cobbles. This is not a beautiful area. There are a lot of small farms and from what I saw many fields were being tended by extended families. The grapes I had last night did not come from around here as what vines there were snaked haphazardly around field boundaries and would probably only have supported the family. The occasional outcrop of eucalyptus trees added some spice to the air and to be fair the locals were very hospitable waving with the occasional bon camino thrown in for good luck.

At around ten I stopped for a drink at the top of another cobbled hill. A mile or so after I felt something was missing. It was, my Tilley hat, I must have dropped it on the ground at my rest stop. Uttering a few well chosen Anglo Saxon phrases I retraced my path and found it on the steps of the church where I has been resting. Apologising for my language I whipped it off the ground and went on my way. Now that might not seem too much of a problem to most and indeed it isn't, but I promise you when you are pounding out the miles having to back is the last thing you want to do.

So, having got that sorted I decided to try work out exactly how many granite cobblestones I would walk over during the course of this trek. They were horrid to walk on. Sunken, or at drunken angles, great dips where cars had gone over them through the years, or worse still missing. Anyway, I was working this out when I got the fright of my life as this huge black thing reared up to my left in the garden of a house I was passing. It had a roar that suggested it was being probed by a red hot poker, a nose like Concord and ears the size of wig-wams. It also had great teeth, I know that because it was showing them to me. It was on a chain that came within an inch of the gate and it's breath smelt as if it had gobbled the goats cheese I couldn't find yesterday.

I was already in the throws of needing to answer the call of nature when this thing almost did the job for me. Turning hastily down a lane I commenced to do the necessary as a snake slithered out of the grass bank and passed within inches of my right foot. I know it was my right foot because it was my right leg that was getting wet. It was brown with green diamond shapes and around three feet long and an inch around. (No, the snake.). It went off into the undergrowth while I went to the local fountain to wash my leg. 

Having survived all that I still has to endure the dance of death with the traffic. I swear drivers in Portugal get extra rewards for shaving the hair off a Pilgrim's legs. 

I found the hostel in the delightful town of Barcelos, which has proper square with large market place and plenty off nooks and crannies to explore. I will eat in the hostel, a dinner of soup, followed  by chicken from the oven. Not bad for £8 all in, including hot showers. 

Tomorrow is the longest day, 21 miles and requires an early start, so there will be no alcohol tonight. 

Day two - Porto to Vilarinho. 16 miles

At 0730 prompt I picked up the first yellow arrow for Santiago de Compostela outside the west door of the cathedral. It was sunny and the top temperature was predicted to be 24C. A ramp descends down from the cathedral which seemed an appropriate way of shovelling one on one's way. Steep steps lead through tall narrow buildings separated by an arm length, and into which the sun never shone. I worked my way around the men blasting yesterday's dog-poo which seemed to only be pebble dashing the skirts of the nearby houses. It was now time to concentrate.

There is no need to take a map on this walk as it, like the Camino Frances, is well signposted by yellow arrows pointing the way, but I knew getting out of Porto was not going to be easy as the arrows were often lost in a confusion of other road signs. Get it wrong and you could find yourself in Madrid.

There was the option to cut out this arduous route march altogether. Many choose to take the bus for 10 miles which gets them out of the city, but I see very little point in that. Unfortunately we can't cut the bad bits out of our life and if I had taken this option I would not have walked from Porto to Santiago. But who would care? Well, I would for one. 

The second arrow I found on a traffic sign at the bottom of the hill and then others started pulling me up through the cobbled lanes. Now I was beginning to feel it and I had only gone a mile. Like all treks, no matter how much training you do at home you never really get into your stride until the third or forth day.

Eventually I reached the old prison and I could see from the faces of those scurrying off to work that they were displaying Monday morning blues as they stuffed their ears with iPhones and their mouths with coffee scalding out of polystyrene cups. It brought back memories long forgotten and so I plodded on. Outside the Carmelite church with its beautiful blue tiles I got my first Bon Camino. On the Camino Frances it is a regular greeting from the locals but not so in Portugal, more followed and I find it difficult to explain how uplifting those two words are given generously by strangers.

Passing quickly through the shopping area I entered the suburbs. Dour, dusty, and somewhat depressing. As I made my way along I thought I would treat myself to some goats cheese for dinner. Always been very partial to that, the stronger the better. The owners of small corner shop did not speak English or French and I don't and probably never will speak Portuguese. So after the owner got his complete cheeses selection out of the fridge I could see no goat's cheese and thought it was time for some positive action. So I put two fingers up beside my ears and threw my head around in a butting action. That worked, thank goodness. 'So have you got it?, I asked. Nodding furiously and apparently so pleased his face suddenly turned to stone. 'No!' He said, replacing several packets of cheeses that were slowly turning green having had been out of the fridge for some time. 

Leaving the shop I could feel eyes on me and over the road a man was looking at me intently. He was about sixty, heavy build with a solemn long grey face, jet black moustache and slicked back silver hair. His suit was a somber black. The sign on the premises above his head read. Funeral Parlour. He definitely had me in his sights and I could feel myself shivering as if someone had walked over my grave. Perhaps it was him.

As I hurried away he would not take his gaze from me. I began to feel that I might be on his list, a feeling enhanced when I had to pass through a graveyard that contained fifty shades of architecture from baroque through to classical with a bit of modernist thrown in for good luck. Needless to say I'm still here, but for how long?. I'm sure there was a date on the paper he was holding out to me. Of course, he might have been touting for business, we'll if he want's mine he's going to have to wait.

The rest of the journey was hard. Walking into a northerly wind over miles of uneven cobbles before having to negotiate the mad Portuguese drivers who know two speeds, fast and bloody fast.

But, the end if the day was great. I am sitting in the garden of the beautiful Casa Laura. The sun is shining and a caged canary is sing to me. My clothes are drying in June sun and my socks no longer come when I whistle. I have a room with a choice of ten beds, including a double, and if no one else comes here I will use them all. Thick towels and perfumed soap are all provided in an immaculate ablutions room. Orange juice, tea, coffee biscuits and fruit are all free. The best bit is, it only cost 10 euro. So if my funerial friend was trying to tell me something then this will do nicely, thank you. 

The leaving

Porto is buzzing. The waterfront cafés are full and the pleasure craft are plying the river with more boozy would be sailors than you can count. The flight from Gatwick was swift and uneventful so Easy Jet must be doing something right. After some phaphing about I eventually found the hostel opposite the cathedral which I will be leaving from tomorrow. I am the oldest person by far here and most of the people staying look about 12 years old. They look at me as if they think I have been sent by their parents to spy on them. There is something called an Erasmus party taking place here tonight to which I have been invited. Never heard of it before so I assume it is some sort of religious festival. I have not yet met by fellow six bunkees. That should be fun. As I write there is water coming down through the ceiling and someone is placing a bucket between my legs. Thank goodness I discovered where the water was coming from, for a moment I thought it was me.

Checked out my starting place outside the west wall,of the cathedral for tomorrow then explored. Porto is all hills and is typical of many such cities that war has by-passed. Anodyne housing blocks occupy one side of the river which is connected by a bridge built by the inventor of Meccano. The old quarter is just that, old, crumbling and peppered with tall cranes trying to keep it all together, but it is beautiful, vibrant and fun to explore.

I am wearing my St Lukes 'T' shirt and as I was returning from the port was asked to join a Swiss banker and his new love at their table. They were a charming couple, very much in love and pleasure to be in the company of, particularly as the would not let me pay for the beer. Good luck to you Nadine and Andre I could think of worse places in which to plight your troth.

I have the first stamp on my pilgrim's passport. That will give me entry into the next hostel on route.

Getting ready for the trek

 Getting everything ready for the trek out of Porto on 2 June and the road north to Santiago de Compostela 150 miles away. The metal strips in the front are my contact lenses, better when I get hot and sweaty and if the temperature stays at it's current 22 degrees that will be often. The Tilley hat has accompanied me over many hundreds of miles over the tracks of France and Spain and the red eating utensil is another must. It's a spork a combined knife, fork and spoon which I always enjoy having in my hand as it means I'm relaxing with food to eat.

There are two of everything when it comes to clothes and the whole lot, including the rucksack will weigh no more than 7kgs. When I walked the Camino Frances I was amazed what people were carrying and many returned from the first leg over the Pyrenees to post some of their stuff back home. Mind you, I've also been guilty of this. When I walked the Robert Louis Stevenson trail through the French Cevennes last year I had the bright idea that I would camp as he did. Well that lasted one night.  The ground was hard despite a foam mattress, the wall of the tent leaked and everything was damp. Worst of all I only had about one hours sleep. On the second day I dumped the whole lot in bin and stayed in hotels.

The plan this time is to use the hostel system ala  Camino Frances. I have my Pilgrim passport forth stamped each day starting at the first one in Porto which I have booked. I can then stay at the next one en route collecting stamps as I go. Cost is around 10 euros night but you have to be prepared to sleep in mixed sex rooms and put up with the snoring.

My flight to Porto leaves mid-day Sunday and I start walking solo at 6am Monday morning. Fingers crossed the weather holds fair.

I am walking to raise funds for my local hospice details of which you can see at:


www.justgiving.com/stlukespilgrim

Great English Bank Holiday

Sun was shining, kids were making sand castles, ice cream cones abounded and fish and chips in polystyrene boxes was the dish of the day.

My new boots.

After several years of tramping thousands of miles across Europe my boots have finally given up. I got my Yorkshire Terrier, Benny to confirm they have had their day, he agreed.

My first training walk in company with 570 other men.

On Saturday St Luke’s Hospice in my home city held their first ‘men only’ charity walk around Plymouth Devon. I give my take on this windswept event. To go to my charity page click on 
http://www.justgiving.com/stlukespilgrim

Five hundred and seventy men of all age, shapes and sizes set off at 10.00am from Plymouth Albion’s rugby ground on Saturday to walk eight miles around Plymouth to raise funds for St Luke’s Hospice.   Trying to organise that number of men, who were not under the supervision of their better halves, into fast, moderate and slow groups was a bit like shovelling smoke for the organisers. 

 Controlling the herd before the off

As the flag dropped the hoard surged forward to make its way out of the ground. Wearing white shirts given to them by St Luke’s this indomitable band of brothers wended its way over Stonehouse Bridge and into Union Street like a white serpent.

Traffic came to a halt and horns tooted in support as this phalanx of the fit and willing pounded out their beat on the pavement. I’m sure many a car with female only occupants came around for a second look. By the time the top of Western Approach was reached this thin white line had broken into knots of varying numbers and the assembly now resembled balls of cotton wool being blown along towards the University in the fierce gusting wind.

The Esso garage in Exeter Street became the first stop for many. Not to refuel with chocolate or nuts but to avail themselves of the toilet at the back of the garage. It was cold, after all. Embankment Road and Elliot Street brought a respite from the battering the wind was inflicting but as the leaders turned towards the Barbican and struggled over the Hoe they faced the full force of a malevolent westerly.

At strategic points along the route volunteer marshals pointed the way and clapped and shouted encouragement. At West Hoe, another toilet stop for men of a certain age, a lady handed out jelly babies that were eagerly grabbed by cold red hands.

By the time the leaders reached Durnford Street the end of this cohort of the willing was leaving the Mayflower steps on the Barbican. So far, the only rain had come at the start of the trek and as I walked across the Hoe the sun came out and more blue sky than I had seem in an age broke through the incessant grey cloud.  

 I had to hang onto the rail to prevent being blown away on Plymouth Hoe

At the end of Durnford Street the route turned right opposite the house where Sir Arthur Conan Doyle practised as a doctor with the man he was later to base the character of Dr Watson on in his Sherlock Holmes books.

The reappearance of Stonehouse Bridge injected adrenalin into many aching legs, which was just as well, because the long incline of Devonport Hill was the last obstacle before the welcome sight of the flapping marquee in the rugby ground came into view. Here, a welcome plate of curry and pint was on offer, all for the princely sum of the £15 it had cost to enter the walk. Not only that, the £15 included tickets to that afternoon’s rugby match against London Welsh.

This was St Luke’s inaugural men only walk and I suspect it will not be the last. I would not be surprised if next year there are over 1000 men taking part. Hopefully they will not all be queuing to use the toilets in the Esso garage in Exeter Street.

I now have to get some serious training in on Dartmoor when the weather improves..