The empty road.
Heading east towards Lugo on a Sunday.
Fiesta Sunday.
The towns are packed.
The big road is empty.
50kms and hardly a car.
It doesn’t feel real for driving to be this easy. Can I leave the van do its thing and climb in the back to make a cup of tea? I guess in the future you’ll be able to.
Driving is generally an unconscious competence. You just do it. Especially near home where you know the roads, know the risks. Find yourself in a foreign city and that quickly snaps back to a conscious competence or worse. Fortunately most cities have very low speed limits allowing a greater margin for error as you struggle with a road system that makes no sense and road users you’re unfamiliar with (electric scooters anyone?).
This morning in Santiago de Compostela the rain fell as I sat outside reception trying to finish the blog on their wi-fi.
This afternoon in Lugo it’s so hot, rain doesn’t seem a realistic memory.
Lugo.
We’re parked in a huge motorhome area near the centre of Lugo. In the large van next to us a French woman is dressed in an apron to hoover her van. Both apron and boozer are alien to us. Outside monsieur is playing his part. He’s working hard on a packet of Gauloise and a can of Kroneberg.
City walls are nothing new, but no other town in the world is surrounded by its original Roman walls.
Founded around the time of Christ the city has been important for trade over the centuries.
Visit on your long walk. The Camino passes through Lugo. Its cathedral is modest on the outside, outrageous on the inside. They’re pretty strict with their no photos rule, shame.
It might not be the pinnacle of religious art, but it’s up there as a contender. It isn’t opulent in the Greek sense of dripping gold. The value here is the incredible detail of the artworks, be they wooden painted friezes, brass relief door pushes, stained glass windows, or the most incredible ceilings outside of Rome. We examined the photos we did sneak on the big laptop screen and saw ever more detail that we’d missed on first viewing.
There’s a much written of the cathedral’s museum of relics, but the details are in Galician and Castilian, neither of which are our strong points. Our lack of understanding meant the jaw bone we were examining may have been that of the apostle himself, or one of the builders who fell from the roof during the construction.
Elsewhere the old town within the walls is a curious mix of modern flats, excavated but then abandoned Roman remains, tumbled down buildings and incongruously smart retail.
Visiting again on Monday when it was thronged with well dressed people the smart town came alive. There have been millions of Euros spent here recently. The little town houses are next in line for refurbishment. Bringing people back into the town to live will further its rejuvenation.
After a religious experience it’s best to retire to a good hostel. We headed to Porton where the execution of modern bar in shabby surrounds reaches a new peak.
The Camino.
Minty pointed out that the whole walking scenario of the last post would be lost on anyone unfamiliar with The Camino, let alone its ultimate expression, La Camino de Santiago.
La Camino – the walk. There are many Camino across Spain. Not all with religious connections.
Here’s an overview of the walk of walks.
It all started with King Alfonso II, ruler of Asturias between 783 and 842 AD.
Alfonso had heard that the remains of Saint James lay in Compostela.
James the apostle. This was a big thing. One of the twelve apostles of Christ.
Alfonso decided to check out the story. On foot. 200 miles. Quite a hike for a king.
He walked from his capital city, Oviedo, to Compostela. And was happy with what he saw.
In no time news of his walk had caught on and a pilgrimage was born. Those with the knowledge, time and money were flocking to Oviedo to repeat the king’s endeavour.
This was the start of the walk of all European walks. Alfonso’s route is now known as the Camino Primitivo and has been joined by several other routes, including the most popular, the Camino Frances which starts east of the Pyrenees and weighs in at an impressive 800 miles!
Today as many as half a million people complete one of the Camino routes each year. Evenly spread out across the year, that’s 1350 people starting every day. Of course most avoid the winter. That means one hellofa lot of summer walkers.
The curious thing is that as religious beliefs diminish, this most Christian of exploits has become one of the must do challenges of modern life.
It leaves me tempted, but with many questions. Such as, in the Middle Ages how did people know of this thing? How did they finance their travel? And then what? The couldn’t all stay in Santiago, and there weren’t many buses to take them home. Some of these questions apply today. Especially – then what?
Best bar in town.
Sunday afternoon. Fiestas happening in other towns.
Lugo is empty.
Except for those in the know, who, like us, headed to Hostel Portôn. Down piss stinking alleys (really), there’s the coolest place in town. Hostel. Cocktail bar. Restaurant. Partly dilapidated. Partly decorated. An altogether gorgeous joint that I wish I’d built.
Good beer? In the past fair criticism has been levelled at Eurotrash lager across many of the sunny lands. Spain has hit back with Vintage Estrella, an 8% full flavour lager that hits the spot.
An inventory of roadside fruits on the 40 minute walk to Villafranca del Bierzo.
For the first night in five we’re on a campsite. A quiet woodland paradise. Outside of Villafranca del Bierzo. Showers. The bliss of cold water over hot sweaty bodies.
And Jeffery.
Jeffery might never have been touched before. He was very wary. But Min was determined. Jeffery was fell to the temptation of a few of Polly’s biscuits. Jeffery allowed himself to be touched. Before we left Jeffery had sought out the van, he’d lain on Minty’s lap.
Roadside bounty.
There’s bounty along the roadside walk into town. Let’s start with the less obvious that I’m likely to forget.
Persimmon. Still green.
Kiwi. Huge leaves. Many are grown in Spain.
Mulberry. Just a few dried fruits left.
Medlar. Who knows what you do with them? Ask your gran if she’s over 130 years old.
Quince. See medlar. Like huge malformed pears.
Nuts. Walnut. Hazel. Chestnut.
Cherry. Fruits long gone.
Cherry laurel. Poisonous. Shame. They’re so tempting, but even the birds don’t touch.
Plums. Gorgeous looking fruit. Purple so dark it’s near black, then dusted with lilac.
Grapes. Ribera Tempranillo. As dark as the plumes.
Tomato. The favoured Spanish tomato is a large ridged fellow with firm flesh that a sharp knife will cut ceviche fine.
Pepper. Huge peppers. We’ve tried them. Delicious.
Peach. A peach tree will have a thousand fruits around its base. They’re small, don’t look great, but taste just fine.
Raspberry. Ripe. Out of reach.
Elderberry. Best not eat them without cooking, but the sparkling jewels of jet look ready to burst on the tongue.
Melon. Small green ones.
Pomegranate. Not ripe yet. Out of reach.
Passion fruit. Is it warm enough here? It looks to be.
Squash. Butternut. Pumpkin. And some massive ones that looked too big to lift.
Figs. Figs are everywhere. We tried some green. Sweet. Discard the skin.
Apples and pears. Hard to do them justice. 20 varieties. Tiny to huge.
Give peas a chance.
On the menu del dia in Villafranca they offer peas stewed in beer with hard egg. Who could pass up such an opportunity? It was great. Peas as a starter.
With a meat course, dessert, wine and coffee the menú was only €16. No wonder every table was full.
Rolling Fog. Reconstruction.
In every town 20% or more of the old buildings are abandoned, in a poor state of repair, and often with a faded For Sale notice.
Every now and then one becomes the subject of Rolling Fog dreams.
Rolling Fog is a loose concept that I may one day bring to bear, centered on a dilapidated but beautiful building offering for sale a curated selection of objects that I love.
It’ll probably include accommodation to help fund the folly, where every item will be for sale. The thought has been with me for a while. We named it this time last year in a fabulous French café.
At its heart will be interesting conversation.
Drive.
At times the drive is all the reward you need. At other times it simply gets you there.
Much of this trip has presented the challenging engineering of roads that are rarely at ground level. Tunnels speed traffic through hills that once took hours to climb and descend, viaducts fly over valleys deep below.
On high you’re in the wind. Looking at the drop makes your stomach lurch.
The ultimate thrill came at a crossing of the deep river Sil Gorge. Plunge through a tunnel under a mountain for a while, briefly emerge from the black into bright sunlight 200 metres above the river on a sliver of concrete, only to plunge straight back into the darkness of the mountain opposite.
Burn.
I mentioned last week how eucalyptus is planted across much of what might have been wild Spain, and how combustible this giant can be.
On the otherwise stunning drive between Monforte de Lemos and Ponferrada we saw the first evidence of wild fires.
Mountains burnt from valley to peak. Nothing but brown stone, black soil and tree stumps. At times the road had acted as firebreak. Black on one side, the edge markers just white puddles on the blackened soil. Green on the other.
Seeing the after effects is terrifying. The reality beyond contemplation.
Yet there’s beauty in the horror.
The first colour emerging from the black is the autumn crocus.
In places the regenerating green against the black is the best green you have ever seen.
Molinaseca. León.
How does one village get to be so pretty when its neighbours barely warrant a second look?
All the way back in the Middle Ages was there a master plan for Molinaseca?
Nothing quite the same, go easy on symmetry, overhangs for shade, balconies to the first floor. A mix of granite quoins with flint infill. Exposed timbers. Narrow alleyways, regularly. If you have a coat of arms shout it loud in sandstone.
The village was empty today but must throng with walkers and less hurried visitors through the summer.
Down one of the many alleys two old women sit by a fragrant charcoal grill. They’re scorching huge local peppers, then peeling the burnt skin away. Muscle memory. They look hard at work, but they’re deeply engaged in their chat.
I’d like to be based there awhile, and walk the surrounding hills. There’s a 320km circular route from here https://lamiradacircular.com I keep forgetting the website so I’ve included it here for reference.
León.
An hour down the road from Molinaseca, León is its antithesis. Constant traffic. High rise. Roads in every direction. Everyone in a hurry. Until they sit to drink a wine or beer with lunch then their tongues pick up the pace their movement has relinquished.
León Cathedral.
We visit the cathedral for the second time. Last year we wandered in among worshippers for a service, but were quickly ushered out. This year we paid like grownups and were prepared to be awed.
Here’s a brilliant thing.
Instead of horrible headphones, or some hand held device, there’s an audio guide that’s accessed by a QR code from your phone.
Perhaps the rest of the world has been doing this for years, but it was new to me. Scan. Select your language. Listen. Genius.
OK. So you’re not religious? Nor am I. However the more you understand about these temples the more overwhelming they become.
Here are a few points I remember several days later.
The first stone was laid in 1205. Master builders had recently discovered that cross braced arches could support tremendous weight enabling large windows in buildings for the first time. This knowledge opened the way for Gothic architecture across Europe.
Coinciding with this advance was the defeat of the the Moorish rulers of Spain leading to a largely Christian Europe for the first time.
Cathedral building entered its zenith with 200 of the finest going up across the continent.
León cathedral took just 50 years. Its restoration in the c.19th took twice as long.
Building a small house has just taken us four years in the c.21st, with every conceivable modern building aid but hardly a decorated surface.
In terms of pushing the boundaries on the time, simply conceiving the master plan for a building like this must be up there with space travel today.
Oh. And an important statistic – the population of León at this time was only 5,000 people. About the size of St Just today.
Contrast.
Just 70 miles up the road we’re climbing into the Picos de Europa. The traffic has fallen away. The road narrows. At times the drop to the valley below is best not glanced at.
In the national park the trees are native. Scrub oak, ash, birch higher up, Rowan in its red berried splendour. Hawthorn and blackthorn also covered in fruit.
Horses roam.
Massive mountain dogs guard cattle.
There’s only one small village and we’re headed there now.
Posada de Valdeón.
Outside the Picos de Europa Bar in Posada de Valdeón four old boys meet and banter. Subjects range across the council, the English (”Why is he out with his wife? Why isn’t she cooking? He looks like he’s enjoying it!), wine, the coming winter.
In an hour none buys a drink.
Eventually one old boy gets up and leaves for home.
Immediately the others get their drinks in. Grinning.
This village in the middle of the mountains is close in distance, yet so far from the hectic city life of León. I feel calm here. I feel I want to stay, not for a few days, or a month, but ideally across seasons to experience the changes.
At the cheese shop, ring the bell and wait. Eventually the cheese seller will open up and sell you a hunk of their Picón Bejes-Treviso blue. It’s a strong cheese made from a blend of sheep and goats milk that leaves a burn on your tongue as a spice might, yet it’s more palatable than the best stilton.
At the mini-market and bread shop, ring the bell and wait. Eventually the grumpiest shop keeper in Spain might come and fire angry words at you at a pace even the locals find hard.
Other than that there’s a pharmacy, and bars, only one of which is open, but you only need one.
At night it’s dark. Utterly dark. So silent I hear when creatures scurry under the van, when a distant bird skewers its prey.
The Picos Visitor Centre is a must. A brilliantly designed multimedia experience that brings to life elements of the Picos that only the most determined mountaineers are likely to see.
The centre is designed for up to 120 people at a time. We had it to ourselves. Incredible eagles eye footage of the mountains through the seasons. Bears, wolves, lynx and wildcats.
Back in the real world we watch a vulture soar the afternoon thermals, covering several miles in what seems like seconds. Three choughs squawk by with their familiar racket. On the ground tiny frogs hop from the path and I take another obligatory photo of a crocus. It seems if we’re away the crocuses will be on display.
Later Potes. It’s a small mountain town. But it’s festival time and it’ll be anything but quiet.
