Foncebadon - Ponferrada

Day 25 (Saturday 01 June) 237 kilometres to Santiago. While I was stretching a calf muscle on a staircase last evening, a Spanish gentleman stopped to show me an improvement to my technique. Now I can look back and say that one good thing happened during my stay at Foncebadon.

I was roomed with 9 others and one of those turned out to be a middle weight snorer (directly across from me, of course). What he lacked in volume, he made up for in persistence. Rarely was there a break in the racket to allow the rest of us to doze off. As a result, I got very little sleep and woke feeling somewhat less than charitable towards a guy who chooses to use communal living albergues when he knows the consequences for his fellow pilgrims. The feeling didn't last long, though. It's just one more thing in my life over which I have no control. Sleep deprived, it's nonetheless time to move on. As I do, I formulate a relationship between albergues and snorers: the risk of encountering one is directly proportional to the number of bunk beds in the dorm. This reminds me of another formula from a previous life flying a search and rescue helicopter on the east coast: the weather being reported by the ship that is waiting for a medical evacuation of a seriously ill or injured crewman varies inversely to the condition of the patient.

As I exit the albergue, I have to stop to retrieve my guidebook from my rucksack. While doing so, I notice a movement up the street. My first reaction is: what a huge dog. It's not though; it's a donkey trimming the grass in front of another albergue.

The sky is clear, no wind, and a touch of frost; perfect conditions for walking. Initially I'm going steadily uphill, but for most of the rest of the day it's the opposite. This proves to be hard on the knees and the lower back and is mentally taxing, as I have to focus on placing each foot lest I twist an ankle. The trail is problematic for much of the time too; there is a minefield of rocks embedded in the dirt. My pace slows accordingly.

I pass by the Camino iron cross with its mound of stones; each is theoretically brought from home and placed there by a pilgrim in memory of a loved one that was once in their life. Shortly afterward, I cross the ridge that is the highest point on the Camino. It's not the longest ascent (that was the 1300 metres in the Pyrenees on day one), but it is the highest peak above sea level on the Camino Frances.

During one descent, I encounter an interesting sign that defies understanding, at least in English.

According to my online translator, the Spanish means: steep for 15 kilometres, drive with caution.

Another sign that has cropped up frequently from the beginning of my trek reads: coto privado de caza. My IPad translator app says this means: private hunting preserve. I wonder if it's just a strong way of discouraging trespassers. Something akin to the probably apocryphal sign on a fence in Alberta: Can you run across this field in one minute? The bull can do it in 20 seconds.

I finally get to my stop for the night, Ponferrada, about 7 hours and 10 minutes after departure. That seems to be about my limit for any given day, regardless of the pace. Initially I look at checking into the municipal albergue, but it has 210 beds and I don't want a repeat of last night's experience. A small hotel it is - such luxury.

 

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