Footsore: Tui to O Porrino

Today was long, and difficult, and sometimes painful.

It started well. I took all the correct left turns that took me away from cities and onto the alternative, but still official, forested paths. Many local folks helped, especially the woman at the very start who stopped me and shooed me back in the right direction.

There were lots of pilgrims on the road. These last 100 kilometers represent the required distance to earn a coveted compestela certificate from the cathedral in Santiago de Compestela. I kept a pace with about a dozen Spanish pilgrims, changing up the lead a dozen times.

“Poquito a poquito a poquito,” said two older women as l passed them at a snail’s pace, all of us huffing and puffing, up a hill. ‘Little by little by little.’

I had a near religious experience when I laid my hands on an actual Roman bridge - an ancient structure built by one of the most innovative of early civilizations. I scrambled down a bank to walk under and around the arches, filling my shoes with dirt. This is a blister no-no, but I didn’t care.

And then, a mile later along an asphalt road, the dull ache in my left foot became a sharp pain. Uh-oh. The next two miles were a slow-stepping rumination on which was worse: a pulled something-or-other or more blisters. I stopped and put on my compression sleeve, knowing it was likely to exacerbate the existing blister under it and opposite the foot pain. A mile later, I stopped to slather everything- my foot, my sock, the inside of my shoe - with Vaseline. I also took the 800 mg. Ibuprofen my orthopedist Dr Wiseman (not making that name up) prescribed pre-trip ‘just I case’.

Dr. W, you are the Man!

My accommodation today is an Air B&B. Two miles from the Camino. Uphill.

I am bone tired and starving when I come across Bar d’ Pepe in a tony, rural neighborhood obviously unused to pilgrims. The bartender serves me delicious grilled calamari with onions and fries, and a coke.

“Fue un dia deficil ( a hard day),” I tell her. “La comida es un regalo (The meal is a gift.)

Celine, the owner of my accommodation, texts me, while I’m eating.She can pick me up if I can wait a half hour. Can I wait that long?

Oh, hell yes, I’ll wait. It’s another half mile to her house. Uphill.

Now, I’m chilling in my room, sporting three blisters, sore feel, and a full belly.

The walk has started wearing me down, but the markers now show I’m about 100 kilometers, 65 miles, away. I can do that.Read more