Day 28 (Tuesday 4 June). 155 kilometres to Santiago. While waiting to register yesterday afternoon, Galway Edward kept us entertained. He told of sitting outside a pub in Ireland having a few pints of Guiness with his mates when a young man pedalling a unicycle came up the slope towards them. They were mildly stunned. As he passed, one of the beer drinkers called out: "So, are youse saving up to buy the other wheel, or what?" Edward's accent reminded me a bit of friend Leo O'Quinn, from the Codroy Valley on the west coast of Newfoundland. Leo loves to tell of a trip home to visit family several years back, during which he spent part of an evening at a nearby tavern. When some of the locals started complaining about the fact that there was no work, an elderly man spoke up and said: "That's because we got'er all done me son." Later, when someone asked the man how old he is he said: "I don't know for sure me son, but when I was in the second grade I sat 3 desks behind Jesus."
In the early evening, Sydney Hans and his friend Igor (originally from Slovakia) ask me to join them for dinner. Brittany Serge is also supposed to come along, but he's sleeping. He shows up later when we are part way through our meal and we share a laugh when I tell him that without his sticks my pack feels like a "montgolfier" (hot air balloon).
My theory about snoring and its relation to the number of beds is failing the jack-acid test. There were somewhere between 50 and 100 people in one dorm room last night (bunks were crowded together such that there was free space only on one side), but it was remarkably quiet. It's a great theory, but the empirical data so far doesn't support it.
Although I only have 21 kilometres to travel today, I'm awake at my usual early hour and underway by 06:45. As I leave the albergue I notice 2 horses grazing alongside it. There is a moderate breeze this morning, but the skies are once again clear and the temperature feels close to 10 degrees. The trail goes gently up and down as I walk alone, deliberately slowing my pace, as I don't want to raise Triacastela too early. I stop in a little hamlet called Fonfria for juice and coffee. The server speaks very good English and shows me a photo on his smart phone: 2 weeks before they had had 15 centimetres of snow.
Continuing towards Triacastela, the slope steepens downhill over the last few kilometres. The path is quite wide, however, and much smoother underfoot than when I came downhill into Ponferrada a few days before. I make it to the albergue by 12:15. Tomorrow I will walk to Sarria, which is the closest town to the 100 kilometre distance to Santiago that one is required to walk in order to obtain an official "compostela". Edward has advised us that swarms of Spanish high school kids will appear at that point because they apparently get some sort of academic credit for walking the last 100 kilometres of the Camino and receiving a "compostela". The ratio of teachers to students is apparently very low and the kids are therefore inclined to be boisterous, loud, and ill behaved. The only solution, an easy one, is to get up early and walk between waves of students.
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