A foggy day

I am ready quite quickly but settle to blog writing while I wait for the others. It's hard to imagine how little time there is to do such things. One arrives, showers, washes clothes, finds out what mass or vespers is available, shops, cooks, eats and sleeps before curfew, then rise, packs, breakfasts and departs usually before 8am. (Summer pilgrims will think this a lamentably bourgeoisie hour to set out, but it is darker in these months.)

John is ready soon, but Angela has lost things, and so Nico and I wait while Angela recovers all her possessions. We eventually set off, but a little a out of town Angela realises that she has left her gloves. She heads back as Nico and I continue. Soon we catch up with a group ahead (Richard, Andreas and Steve). There is thick fog, but my feet are now completely pain free, my legs are strong and I am enjoying bounding up the mountain path. However, Nico is not enjoying it so much. He has some back pain and it is making the walking more difficult for him, particularly on the hills.

We pass through what seem, in the fog to be abandoned villages. With their dark stone, and slate roofs (often collapsed) they seem more Lakeland than Spanish. In time we reach the Cruz de Ferro. The cross itself is fairly small and perched on top of a telegraph pole. Around this pilgrims have left their stones, often brought from home. They form a huge untidy mess of people's prayers: their worries, all the people they carry in their hearts, heart-breaking stories of tragedy. Attached to the post is a sign left by a couple: "We walked the Camino in memory of our two sons" the dates were 1986-2008 and 1988-2012, both killed in sports accidents. And so we stand in the mist on this groaning heap of stones and make our silent prayer.

The path rises and falls for the next few miles until climbing up to a final crest. The sun is fighting through the mist, and as we reach the summit we come through the most to a wonderful vista, a sunlit plain and the town of Ponferrada. It is so sudden, and so unexpected -to come through the mist to this view- that I feel like laughing. Although Ponferrada, on closer inspection has a fair amount of unsightly industry, at this distance it is as if we have come in sight of some mythical city, El Dorado perhaps.

On our descent, Nico, Steve and I stop for lunch. I leave a chalk message outside for Angela, more in hope than expectation. I wonder how far behind she is and how far ahead John is. Then, just as I fear that our little group is disbanded they all come through the door together. They had stopped for coffee in what we took to be an abandoned village, and Angela had caught up with them.

So we continue our descent together, and the path continues to delight, taking us through bracken, along the grassy banks of a stream, and round the hillside to more fantastic views.

Eventually our descent brings us to Molinaseca, a pretty village, no more than two or three long streets really, with traditional houses with rickerty balconies on the upper stories, and heavy stone ground floors which might once have been meant for livestock or workshops.

The Albergue here will close tomorrow for the off-season (a slightly worrying sign) but the hospitaleros kindly puts out tea and toast for us. We fend for ourselves and sit out front eating gazpacho, bread, cheese, figs from the trees, and olives.

A Californian couple we know (Chris & Meghan) show up with a bottle of wine looking for a corkscrew. We search everywhere without success. Eventually I am forced to offer my secret super-power -learned from a friend Jim, Marika's husband- my ability to open bottles with the use of only a butter knife. I bring relief to the stricken couple and retire to bed.