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Jill Gatwood
Jill Gatwood

Jill Gatwood

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  • Jill GatwoodCamino SanabresJill Gatwood

    El Ultimo Dia: Outeiro - Santiago

    26 avril 2024, Espagne ⋅ ☁️ 54 °F

    We are on the last leg; 12 miles into Santiago today. We both really wish this wouldn't end, because every single day has been so beautiful. Also because we are fit after all the mountain climbing and feel like we could walk forever.

    I missed telling about a bunch of days in between, but I'll go back and fill in some details later that might be useful to others planning to walk this route.
    You're lucky Find Penguins only allows me to post 10 photis a day    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodMemoriesJill Gatwood

    A Gudiña to Laza

    17 avril 2024, Espagne ⋅ 🌙 54 °F

    Another long climb, mostly on a paved road surrounded by purple heather, yellow and white flowers. Every day so far has been perfect weather, cool in the morning, around 75f in the afternoon. We"re lucky because Galicia is often very rainy.
    We passed through several small villages with old stone buildings and a few modern houses, but everything locked up and no one in sight. We continued to climb and I watched Olivia ahead of me, hoping her figure would descend, signalling a break in the climb.

    Finally we reached the top of the ridge, with distant views in every direction. I had read a couple of things about the next town, where we planned to stay, Campobecerros. I knew that the descent to the town was steep and on unstable slate scree.

     I also read alarmingly bad reviews of the one hostal in Campobecerros; that the woman who ran it was rude and unwelcoming and the rooms were dingy. One reviewer said, " just keep walking, don't even stop at the bar for coffee!" The reviews were so bad, it almost made me more interested in staying there to experience it! I mean I dont care how we,'re treated; we just wanted a place to sleep.
    We entered the hostal through the bar, which was dark and full of locals, loud, either with joy or anger We recognized the sour owner right away, who pointedly ignored us. When I finally got her attention and asked for a room, she acted put out, led us to a room with two beds and left us. Dingy it was, and with that tell-tale musty aroma suggesting bedbugs. We lifted the sheet and all along the rim of the mattress was a line of spots of bood and scat from a long-term infestation. In case we weren't sure if the problem had been resolved, there was a dead bedbug on top of the sheet which meant either the bugs were still there or the sheet hadn't been changed since they were.

    We went back to the bar, itching all over just from what we'd seen, and asked the "lady" to call us a taxi to Laza. She said sure, no problem and it was the first time we saw her smile, as we walked out the door.
    (Pictures to come)

    .    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodCamino SanabresJill Gatwood

    A Gudiña - Laza

    16 avril 2024, Espagne ⋅ ☀️ 63 °F

    This stage, described in a guide (A Gudiño to Laza) is 34 kilometers, and we weren't going to tackle that kind of mileage (kilometerage?). On gronze.
    com, a regularly updated online site for all the caminos, it said that halfway between these two towns is the pueblo, Campobecerros, which used to have an albergue, but now there's just a guesthouse there behind a bar with about 6-8 beds. It was a hilly 20k (12 miles) from Gudiña to Campobecerros which sounded doable, though the reviews of the place were so horrifyingly bad, it was almost comical. Actually it made me want to stay there more, just to experience it. Most of the reviews described a mean hostess and dingy accomodations, but we just wanted somwhere to sleep, so I called to reserve 2 beds. The lady answered the phone with racous bar noise in the background. I asked if she had room for us (she made me ask it twice), she said yes and as I started to ask the price she abruptly hung up on me.

    So off to walk!
    The path ascended on a quiet country road and then a dirt track, sometimes steeply, and didn't let up. We were on top of the hills, over 1000 meters elevation; only low scrub brush, purple heather and distant views in all directions. Quite beautiful and again no pilgrims in site.

    At one of the highest points, a large lake came into view below. There was a stone bench, a pilgrim fountain and something that was such a great idea I don't know why there aren't more of these. A swing! After swinging, we sat on the bench and had some cheese and bread. To our surprise, a sportscar showed up on the track and stopped in front of us. A.man with a neat beard, trendy clothes and a big camera with lots of lenses jumped out.
    He asked if he could photograph us, explaining he was working on a PR campaign for the region, so we said sure. Then he asked for an action shot, walking up the road. We both started to get up and he said that's ok, I just want one and of course looked at Olivia (she's better "PR" than this abuelita), who put on her pack and walked up the road for him a couple times. Then he sped off, stopping once ahead and taking pics of us from a distance.

    It was unseasonably warm for Galicia, but with a cool breeze, we had the mountains to ourselves, and just a gorgeous day. As we began to tire, we kept scanning ahead for the descent to Campobecerros. We saw a sloping ridge ahead that looked promising, and then some possible switchbacks in the distance.
    But we rounded a corner and found a steep slate scree slope, with Campobecerros straight down below us. I dont know anyone would make it down that in the rain!

    We scrabbled and slipped down the descent to Campobecerros and entered the dark, lively bar. A woman chatted and argued with men at the counter and ignored us. Finally I approached and told her we called about 2 beds. She looked resentful at our interruption and motioned for us to follow her, opened a room with two beds and walked away.

    Dingy was an apt description, with frayed bedspreads that didn't look to have been washed in a very long time on swayback twin beds. And the telltale musty aroma of bedbugs. We peeled up the sheets to find lines of accumulated blood and scat along the top rim of the mattresses that suggested a long term infestation. And a dead bug on top of the sheet to tell us the problem never did get addressed.

    Grabbed our packs, went back into the bar, ordered a couple of beers and felt itchy all over just from what we'd seen. I asked the hostess if she'd call us a taxi to Laza. She smiled for the first time and waved gaily as we walked out the door.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodMemoriesJill Gatwood
    1

    Lubian to A Gaduna

    16–22 avr. 2024, Espagne ⋅ ☀️ 54 °F

    This is not a walk for sissies! Soon after leaving Lubian, we start up an unrelenting, steep trail. Even better, there is water running down the path and deep mud. After each of us missing a stone and plunging a shoe in the water, we changed into sandals for the rest of the ascent to Portela de La Canda, on top of the ridge, the gateway to la provincia de Galicia.

    On the way down from the summit, we sighted in the distance a gas station up on N-252 highway, where we stopped with Brooks in the rental car on the way to the start of our walk in Puebla de Sanabria. That freeway passed through high hills, either barren, or covered in grey and brown, pretty grim looking, which made me dubious about our coming walk. I knew below us in the car) somewhere was the camino route.

    As it turned out, on the actual path across those hills, we walked through purple heather, yellow, white and pink flowers, through tiny medieval stone villages and past impossibly green meadows. And birds I couldn't recognise, with melodious songs. Except the Spanish Cookoo, with it's tell tale call "COOKOO, COOKOO". It sounded like a person doing a bad imitation of what the bird SHOULD sound like. "Get a voice coach!" I yelled at them, "You can do better than that!"

    Olivia was famished on the way to the next town, Vilavella. Ahead of her, I stopped at empty windows in abandoned stone houses and placed my order, "Yes, I'd like the combination plate with enchiladas, tacos, frijoles and papas. What"s that? Yes I'd like red chile and a fried egg on top." She never laughs at my jokes.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodCamino SanabresJill Gatwood

    Lubian to A Gudiña

    16 avril 2024, Espagne ⋅ ☀️ 46 °F

    (This entry is wrong. The mud climb was the next day.. need to do some edits)
    We knew there would be a climb today, but we didn't know it would be an Epic climb.

    We headed out of town, meandering through woods down to a pretty stone bridge over the river. I had heard there was a 400 year old "wolf catcher" near here, but we didn't find it. It's a hole/gulch surrounded by overhanging slate slabs and they put a lamb in the middle. The wolf jumps in and can't get out, and then they paraded the wolf around town before they killed it
    Wolves are still seen in this area.. hope I see one!

    Back to the climb. After the bridge over the river, we turned up a forested trail that got steeper... and steeper. Not hard enough, so they added a rivulet of water running down the middle of the trail surrounded by quicksand-like mud. At first we tried hopping over stones or taking side paths, but it was useless. We changed into our sandals and continued sludging upward, sometimes sinking ankle deep in the mud. We could see Big Foot's prints and a couple of placed where he had dramatic slips with his big ol' shoes. It just wouldn't quit.
    We made it to the summit, Portela de la Canda, the gateway to Galicia, and continued with the descent. (Will clean this up and merge my two entries when I get home)    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodCamino SanabresJill Gatwood
    1

    Requejo de Sanabria to Lubian

    15–19 avr. 2024, Espagne ⋅ ☀️ 70 °F

    We stayed at an older Albergue in Requejo, Casa Cervino. There were lots of trucks in this tiny strip town which was confusing until I started seeing guys who looked like they belonged in Tucumcari, New Mexico - drinking beer, wearing camo hats - and realized it was deer hunting season.

    We left Requejo, walking alongside a highway for a little ways until, just after the tiny town of Padornelo, there was a turn off with new-looking Camino markers and yellow markers.pointing to the right toward the village of Aciberos. All the guides pointed that way, EXCEPT for the WisePilgrim app we were using that told us to ignore that turnoff because it was "the old camino" and continue on the road till we saw a turnoff to the left, which was the "new camino."

    So we did that, heading down through a grassy meadow into the trees.
    We crossed a river and kept walking, almost bushwacking sometimes, seeing no evidence that anyone had walked that way before us, other than rare, tiny wooden signs with yellow arrows. If it weren't for the realtime map on the WisePilgrim app, showing our location on the trail, we would have gotten lost. But it was beautiful walking and we were glad we went that way.

    We didnt see one other walker until we reached Lubian, where we checked into the pilgrim Albergue and saw some familiar faces. Martin, a very tall (2 meters, 6' 5" with size 16 shoes) German, 30+ yrs old, with red hair and a silly sense of humor, Katarina, a Danish woman in her 40s, pretty, down-to-earth with whom we had several great conversations, a young Korean woman (we ran into her every time we stopped) who kept to herself and seemed not to speak Spanish or English (altho someone later told us she did speak English). She never joined our table and it was hard to get her to make eye contact. A very heavy French guy who was struggling on the trail... when he'd bend over, we were privileged to see at least 6" of his butt crack. An older snooty Dutch couple who took every opportunity to one-up others. We started dubbing them with trail names. Martin became Bigfoot, the Korean woman we called "the silent assassin", the French guy we named "Butt crack" but when we got to know him a little better and liked him, we shortened his name to BC.

    While sitting at dinner in Lubian a man came up to me and asked if I was American, then told me I needed to call Casa de Cervino, which we had left about 5 hours before in Requejo. I called and found out that we'd forgotten to pay. I started suggesting different ways I could get the money to her. She said No hay problema, I can drive there and get it from you at the cafe. I said are you sure?? That seems like a nig inconvenience. But 15 minutes later, she showed up before we'd finished eating. After walking all day, that seemed like a miracle!:    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodCamino SanabresJill Gatwood
    11

    Puebla Sanabria to Requejo

    14 avril 2024, Espagne ⋅ ⛅ 66 °F

    First walking day; warm weather, very green, hopping stones across creeks, mountains with snow in the distance. Olivia has great stamina and has become a very good navigator.

    We did not see a single other pilgrim walking, but there are about 10 in the albergue in Requejo, ,all having walked a longer distance today. They are all walking Via de La Plata, a camino that starts way down south in Sevilla, 995 km/over 600 miles from Sevilla to Santiago. The ones I have talked to so far are from Germany, Korea, Denmark and Romania.

    While walking, we came upon a church in a meadow, built probably in medieval times. There were steps so we climbed up and came to very large bells which we rang. On the front of the church you can see a carved scallop shell, a symbol of the pilgrimage. Saw our first stork on a nest. Those 2 guys on the veranda are NOT from Tucumcari, NM. They are rural Spaniards up here doing some deer huntin'.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodMemoriesJill Gatwood

    Puebla de Sanabria

    13 avril 2024, Espagne ⋅ ☁️ 75 °F

    Brooks rented a car and drove us up here, where we start our walk from tomorrow morning. I am surprised at how hot it is - this part of Spain is often cold and rainy.

     It is a beautiful little village with narrow streets between stone buildings, a castle on top of the hill, and a lake down below. Lots of Spanish tourists here now. I had booked a room for us ahead of time in a small hotel and a sign on the door said it opened for check-in at 3, but was still locked up tight after that. So I called the number on the door and the lady gave me the code to get in, our room number and said the key would be in the room door. It was, and it appears we are the only guests staying here. So we have the run of the place including the cafe which doesnt open until breakfast tomorrow. Booze in there and everything, so strange (will add more town pics soon)En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodCamino SanabresJill Gatwood

    Braga

    11 avril 2024, Portugal ⋅ ⛅ 72 °F

    Olivia and I flew from Madrid to Porto, Portugal where we met my brother Brooks who had taken a train from Braga, where he and Necla have lived for the last two years. Then we ubered to Braga. Planes, trains and automobiles!

    Braga is a beautiful inland town with a medieval wall and very old cathedral which has a couryard full of carved stone artifacts from the Romans (in Braga 14 bc - 411 ad) and Celtics (600bc - whenever). who apparently had consecutive temples there before the Christians built on top of them as they were wont to do.

    Brooks is the best tour guide because, like me, he's curious about everything. But he's also smarter and has a better memory than me. He either knows everything about the history, of Braga, what the symbols on the coats of arms carved on buildings and walls mean (15 tassels with 5 on the bottom is for the archbishop, etc) or he was just making shit up the whole time, which would be almost as impressive. He also knows the best hole in the wall places for lunch, the lady in the big Saturday market stops serving other customers to reach out and hand him a cinnamon nata she knows he likes.

    Necla (from Turkey) is a whiz at languages, and seems fluent in Portugues already, chatting away to everybody. Brooks is still getting there (he's taking lessons) and yet we ran into people he knew all over town.

    Necla said this is the first place in a long time she wanted to settle down (she's from Turkey, where she and Brooks have lived, they met in Singapore while living there, she lived in China for awhile, etc). So they bought a place in Braga which is still being built.

    Portugal is the only country I've been to where they tile the outside of the houses. Not only is it beautiful, but seems to me that it would make for a very durable surface that is also easy to clean. Did I take many pictures of them? Guess. We also met Sergio, who runs a guitar store in Braga and he told us all about - and played -.all these different esoteric Portugues instruments. Video attached of him with a Fado guitar    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodCamino SanabresJill Gatwood

    Dallas airport

    10 avril 2024, États Unis ⋅ 🌬 59 °F

    On the layover in Dallas, I stopped in an airport restaurant to get something to eat and sat at the bar. I said to the guy next to me, while looking at the menu, "I can't decide whether to get the fish tacos or save that money for A DOWN PAYMENT ON A MASERATI". (then I noticed he was the actor/rapper, Common). He agreed that $30 was too much for a couple of tacos, (but then he probably already has a Maserati.)
    I could only eat one of them and offered him the other one. He said "no thanks. But you should eat it; you don't want to waste $15!" We had a nice chat.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodMemoriesJill Gatwood

    Mountain moto ride

    29 juillet 2019, États Unis ⋅ 🌙 81 °F

    The weather forecast for today was 100F (38C) in Albuquerque, so I took my motorcycle Zippy up to the Jemez mountains to cool off.

    Pictures:

    1. Stopped at the Jemez pueblo (Walatowa in their native language) for water. I wanted to park my bike by the red cliffs, but when I tried to put my kickstand down, it was deep red mud, so I took a picture from my seat.

    2. Had a green chile cheeseburger at the old Los Ojos bar in Jemez Springs. Saw this mosaic on the floor there.

    3. The Jemez mountains were formed by an ancient volcano. The crater collapsed into a caldera, which is now a broad expanse of meadow that goes on and on, bordered by aspen and pine forests. While enjoying this view, I got a phone call from my son Nigel reminding me that today is "National Lasagna Day" (really) and to stop and get ricotta cheese on my way home.

    4. While leaning into the twisties, my ADHD tendencies allowed me to spot this large herd of elk out of the corner of my eye! I stopped to get a foto and they spotted me from a distance and fled into the trees.

    5. Rested in the shade on the way back down the mountain.

    6. At the bottom of the mountain, it was really heating up, so I stopped by the Jemez river to remove and soak my tee shirt in the water. With my mesh motorcycle jacket over the top of my wet tee shirt, I was a human swamp cooler all the way home.    En savoir plus

  • Jill GatwoodMemoriesJill Gatwood

    1965, Scotts Valley, California

    18 juillet 2019, États Unis ⋅ ⛅ 90 °F

    I was born in 1954 and lived in Scotts Valley, in the Santa Cruz mountains until 1973, when I moved to Albuquerque to go to the University of New Mexico.

    When I was about 10 years old, I was scrambling around along creek near my elementary school. The creek was choked with brambles of blackberry bushes and nettles and not very accessible (but that didn't slow down a 10 year old). I came upon a large stone outcropping with a series of cylindrical holes on top. Some of these holes still held pestals that would have been used for grinding, presumably by earlier, indigenous people. My mother was the local librarian, so we did a little research and found out that acorns were a staple of the diet of the Ohlone people who inhabited that area many centuries ago. Acorns have bitter tannins, so can't be eaten raw. So the Ohlone people would dry them, grind them, then use fresh water to leach out the tannins. As a young child with a plan to escape into the woods and live off the land, this readily available food source interested me, so I set out to make acorn mush. I cut the acorns in half and left them in the sun to dry. Then I took them to the grinding stone I'd found by the creek and ground them into powder. I soaked, drained, boiled the acorns but, no matter what I did, they stayed too bitter to eat. I guess I didn't leach them right.En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodMemoriesJill Gatwood

    1981, Oklahoma City

    18 juillet 2019, États Unis ⋅ ⛅ 90 °F

    In the early 1980s, I moved with my then-husband George from Albuquerque to Oklahoma City, where I got a job managing a backpacking store (Backwoods.. I was assistant mgr. in Albuquerque and they asked me to take over the OKC store). We lived there for two years. Was surprised to find that there was awesome rock climbing in Oklahoma.

    There was an old fixture of a place on Lake Overholser, called Pauline's Bait and Tackle Shop. It was a giant barn; part of it was the bait shop and the rest was an old dance hall, since the 1930s. I mean, the real deal. All the decorations from Christmas, 4th of July, Halloween and Easter for many years still hung up, gathering cobwebs between the taxidermy fish, deer, and elk heads on the wall. In the evening, there was a band: this group of elderly men - a couple of em using walkers - who would make their way up onto the stage and then the fiddles, guitars, bass, would fill the place with pounding music you couldn't believe was coming from these old codgers. One was a phenomenal yodeler, too.

    Big greasy cheeseburgers and line dancing. George refused to go, so I went with some of the local yokel young rock climber guys who worked for me (a couple of these guys later put up new routes in Yosemite.. they were that good). I learned how to Oklahoma two-step. I loved that place! If people got out of order, Pauline would slap them with a flyswatter.

    Finally George got a little insecure about me spending so much time with these brawny young Okie guys, I guess. He was very uptight, but he came with me to Pauline's Bait and Tackle Shop.

    So George sat there with a beer and I periodically called guys over, "Hey, Randy! I want to introduce you to my husband, George!" "Jake, I haven't seen you in a while. This here is my husband George." "Oh George, come over here, I want to introduce you to Jimmy..." George was aghast that I seemed to know everybody there.

    The cowboys were actually baffled that I knew them, too. I saw a few of them huddled over by the bar together, glancing over at me. Finally one of them approached us and said, "Excuse me, ma'am, ah don't reckon I recall where Ah know you frum..." That's when I told him I was just reading their names off the back of their belts. (In those days, all the cowboy types had their names stamped on the back of their western belts.)    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodMosaic WorkshopsJill Gatwood

    Oasis Albuquerque July 11, 2019

    11 juillet 2019, États Unis ⋅ ⛅ 93 °F

    Partway through yesterday, I was having some second thoughts. I gave a basic intro. on technique and materials, but only a little bit on design. I think some of them felt like I'd pushed them in a lake and said Sink or Swim. Some frustrated grumbling, others paralysed with indecision about where to start, some scrapping their original complicated designs in favor of Just-Get-This-Done . A lot of muttered self-loathing.

    Once again I wondered if I should have passed out the same design to everybody and had us all do the same thing, step by step, together?

    But again, it came together. Individual, unfettered creativity and resiliency prevailed! Some very nice work.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood

    Tierra Encantada

    26 juin 2019, États Unis ⋅ ⛅ 79 °F

    Back in New Mexico. I have a long story about airport horrors, but I bet you don’t want to hear it.

    Fine, I’ll tell it anyway. This is my blog. You can scroll ahead if you don’t care.
    When I landed in the US, I got in a fight with TSA in Dallas and I almost missed my connecting flight to Albuquerque. They couldn't figure out how to open the cordlock system on my Osprey backpack and I got a little sarcastic, I guess. Things escalated from there. The nerdy woman agent got all passive aggressive on me.

    I think it actually started before that when she overheard me complaining to the person behind me in line that I had to take off my sandals and walk barefoot through security. I commented that, while there has NEVER been a successful terrorist event involving shoes (somebody tried once, but it didn’t work), we are all demeaned, inconvenienced and delayed by this policy. Meanwhile, any violent, mentally ill person can legally carry an ASSAULT WEAPON into a bar in my state. The agent was so pissed off by the time I got there, she tried to take away my Spanish wine, all security wrapped by the DutyFree store in the Madrid Airport. She said “either I will confiscate it, or you need to put it in checked baggage.” Which meant a sky tram and two escalators to the opposite end of the airport. I put the wine in my backpack with no protective packaging and dropped it off. Desk agent gave the wrong gate for my connecting flight, so then I took the sky tram to the wrong terminal and had to run 3/4 mile back to my gate, which was just starting to close.

    People ask, "How was your flight" but Nobody wants to hear these stories, really. Someday I will learn to just say, "Fine" like everybody else.

    I have a couple of other smaller issues I want to explore and debate, such as why so many people walking the Camino wear convertible pants ("Shants" as I call them). The illogicality of those ridiculous pants will be outlined later with bullet points.

    The horrific bills are pouring in for Byron's cardiac care. Insurance is paying for a pittance of it. We are responsible for a sickeningly large percentage of the fees. The torn ligament in my left knee really needs to be repaired, but I can't afford the MRI test to evaluate it for surgery. Etc. Medicare soon! If anyone has suggestions about how to easily acquire EU citizenship, I’m all ears.

    I've got three Mosaic Art classes/workshops set up in late July and August. Those will pay a little for all of this.
    Otherwise, I’m sitting in a hammock under the back awning with a glass of wine, a fluffy chicken in my lap while a summer thunderstorm moves in. so I really can’t complain.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood
    1
    1111

    Madrid

    22 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ ⛅ 86 °F

    I missed recording a few days, including walking into Santiago de Compostella, a couple of days knocking around Santiago where I searched for a small statue of San Roque by day (on account of him being the saint for dogs and - with my background in epidemiology - his association with infectious diseases). It was harder to find Roque than I thought, but in the process, I got to see some parts of Santiago little visited by tourists. Like a back road curandera shop with magic candles, powders and religious relics, etc. I love places like that.

    By night, I lay awake in the hostel, unable to sleep because there was a street busker harpist under my window who played for 5 hours straight without a single break. I’m not making this up. A harp sounds great for about 20 minutes. After that, you start wondering if there’s a store open that sells poison dart guns. And hoping like hell you don't end up going to heaven if it sounds like that.

    Now I'm staying in an Airbnb in Madrid, on the border of an Islamic neighborhood, in a room in an apt. owned by an ebullient guy named Sergio who reminds me of the Italian actor, Roberto Benigni. If I leave my room door open, he rushes in bearing chocolates, with maps, enthusiastic advice about where I should visit next and to be sure I'm okay.

    Sergio says he needs to practice his English, but refuses to speak it at all. While showing me around, he opened a drawer in the bathroom and asked me how to say it in English. I said "drawer," and he tried to say it. I spelled it and that made it worse. He said English is too hard to learn and after that, I tended to agree with him.

    It's hot and humid here, so I set out on foot, looking for a desk fan for my room. I've mentioned these little variety stores in Spain and Portugal called “Bazars de Chino” (and other similar names). They are, I'm not exaggerating, a fourth the size of a 7/11 convenience store and literally every single time, I have found exactly what I'm looking for there, no matter how esoteric. Check out the ambitious sign on this front of this tiny store. And yes, they had the desk fan I was looking for and also a duffle bag I can use to check my walking sticks and some other stuff when I fly home. The fan was on the shelf over bags of potting soil, citrus squeezer tools and a display of packets of googly eyes.

    Next I went to El Prado, one of the top art museums in the world. Mainly I went there because I figured it was air conditioned. It has your Goyas, El Grecos, Velazquez, your Rubens, Raphaels, Bosches, some Rembrandts, etc. Astonishing painting skills but, sadly, mostly religious themes that I think range from monotonous to morbid, so sue me. I focused on the minute, realistic painted details of the costume fabrics. Amazing. You're "not allowed" to take photos, so I did and then I let the security guard tell me I wasn't allowed to do it. And then everybody was happy.

    Today I went for a marathon walk in the heat, through the crowds to Plaza Mayor (practically ruined by large tourist groups and kitchy shops). Back in 1973, I remember sitting at an outdoor café in Plaza Mayor with a big glass of Horchata (I haven’t seen any horchata since I’ve been here), very relaxed with a local vibe. Not anymore. Then I walked around the old city to Plaza Chueca, the heart of the gay neighborhood that is gearing up like mad for Pride next week. (Last time I walked the Camino Frances, I ended up in Madrid for Pride week. I will never get over the fact that a group of 12 muscular guys wearing rainbow butt thongs and angel wings roller-skated by me and I didn’t have my camera with me.)

    Looking at my reflection in shop windows, in my cargo shorts and oversized tee shirt, I realized I resembled a middle aged man in Branson, Missouri. So I stopped in a boutique and bought a brightly colored linen shirt dress, that I looked pretty smart, and wore it out of the store. Now I'm walking around, noticing everybody else is in earth tones and I look like a circus umbrella.

    Whaddayagonnado.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood

    Milladoiro, 8k outside of Santiago

    19 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ ☁️ 61 °F

    Milladoiro is a strange town, after walking through so many small villages or cities that evolved slowly from medieval times until now (with narrow cobbled alleys and stone bridges). Instead, Milladoiro looks like it was built all at once with only cost and convenience in mind. Lots of tall apartment buildings and straight plotted wide streets.

    As I neared town, I started looking for available accommodations to get out of the rain. One was called the "Venus Motel" and there was a pink sign that said "Si amor no existe, Hace lo. " I decided to give that one a pass.

    I walked in the rain all day and was so glad I was in sandals instead of shoes. Others squelched by in wet shoes and socks, stepping gingerly around puddles. Me and a Japanese guy who was also in sandals splashed through the mud and then waded through fountains to clean our feet. At the albergue now, everybody elses’ wet shoes, with insoles removed, are propped along a wall (not) drying.

    The albergue is nice, run by a young, very friendly Cuban guy and everything looks new and well-organized. Next door was a boring, pilgrim-catering café with the same usual food. I sat outside and eavesdropped on three pilgrims at the next table, two young men and a woman. One looked Asian, one who I met before I knew was German and I don’t know what the other two were, but I had the feeling they had recently met and what they had in common was Smoking Cigarettes. The only common language they had was something I didn't understand, so I had a hard time keeping up, but kept hearing them say “Chi-Bee-Dee.” Over and over, like little birds. What could that be?? Finally I heard the word “cannabis” and realized they were discussing CBD oil. So I butt in and forced them to speak English, while I held court on all I knew about cannabis derivatives.

    Earlier in the day, I ran into Father John, walking in the rain in his long black robe, which I doubt is quick-dry, tech fabric. He and his small group had earlier walked 5 kilometers off the route to the Herbo Franciscan monastery outside of Padron that offers lodging. They had been really looking forward to staying there. But a bus full of tourists arrived just in front of them and got all the beds, so they were turned away. I said, "So you couldn't even play the ‘Padre Robe’ card?" He said no, they'd already closed the door. Big disappointment and Fr John had been dying to see some Franciscans.

    I bought a big umbrella today at a "China" shop.

    The picture below of the water basin with slanted slats on both sides was built for women to meet and wash clothes. Each village has one. The Japanese guy and I, in shorts and sandals, splashed through it, showing off for the shoes and boots crowd.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood
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    1

    Galicia!

    18 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ 🌧 66 °F

    I walked from Caldas de Reis to Padron, mainly on a woodland track though meadows, gardens and more eucalyptus, pine, and oak forests. Mostly in the rain... classic Galicia weather. It's lush and green.

    I have a room at Hostal de Flavia, on the 4th floor overlooking Padron. This town was named after the "Pedron" Roman stone, now displayed under the altar in the Igrexa Santiago here. It was this stone, according to legend, that the boat carrying the body of St. James was moored to, before it was transported by oxcart to the site where the Cathedral of Santiago was built. Yep.

    Padron peppers (named after the town) are popular here, served roasted. They say one in ten is hot. "Os pementos de Padron uns pican e outros non." (in the local regional Spanish) They were brought from the New World (New Mexico region?) by the Franciscan monks at the nearby Herbon monastery, where they are still grown. I asked where I could get some seeds to take home, but was told they are only sold on Thursday, market day, in the square, so I missed that.

    Pictures below:
    That statue on the side of a small church is San Rochas. He is portrayed holding open his robe to show a plague sore and there is a dog next him. While he was ill, the dog brought him bread every day and licked his sore to heal him. San Rochas is the saint for people with infectious diseases and for dogs (What they didn't know was that that dog probably carried the fleas that gave him the plague. Oh well).

    The chalkboard sign was outside a "China shop" in Caldas. These tiny shops are found in towns all around Spain and carry a little bit of everything. I found needles and thread there and duct tape (cinta Americana). They are run by Chinese people, who you practically never see anywhere else in Spain. I loved this example of cultural pride and reaching out for connection.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood
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    Pontevedra to Caldas de Reis

    18 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ 🌧 64 °F

    Yesterday. I walked with Tricia from Albuquerque for a while. She’s an interesting person; has visited and lived all over the world. Doesn’t live far from me. It was nice, but I talk too much.. I feel the urge to express every thought I have out loud. I point out what I think is beautiful and then explain why it is beautiful, in case the other person with me doesn’t appreciate it the way I do. It’s exhausting for me, not to mention whoever I am walking with. I miss what else is going on around me. I love walking alone.

    More tranquil forest paths and a great waterfall along the way.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood
    11

    Pontevedra, now we're talkin'

    16 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ ⛅ 70 °F

    The "cast of characters" has mostly moved ahead or I left them behind. I occasionally spot one of them from a distance or in a city crowd. I saw Jared, the Canadian motorcycle mechanic, walking with what looked like a Swedish girl, so that's nice. I’m walking alone, which I relish.

    Pontevedra is a quintessential mid-sized Spanish town, set up for wandering, browsing and socializing on foot. Narrow streets opening onto broad plazas; grandparents on benches, people drinking wine and having tapas at outdoor cafes, teenagers riding bikes and scooters, toddlers chasing pigeons, wheelchair riders chatting by the fountain, a busker playing classical guitar, and not a car to be seen. Bordered by historic buildings and a cathedral with a statue on top of a Medieval woman pilgrim (you don’t see that often).

    Down another stone alley to another plaza with an ice cream vendor and a shop renting pedal go-carts, bikes with sidecars, six passenger pedal carriages. Another guy rents remote control cars that can be driven/ridden by babies as young as a year old, parents holding the remote, laughing hysterically as their toddler drivers whip around the plaza and through the crowd. People walking french bulldogs and yorkies, taking them into bars.

    This is how city life for our species is meant to be lived and I think many Americans don't even know it.

    Long walk, about 14 miles today. Through eucalyptus forests carpeted with ferns, past big gardens and across rivers.

    There were firecrackers/fireworks popping in small towns and in the village of Arcade (Ar-Cod-Eh), a little brass band marched through. Dia de San Juan? I don’t know.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood

    Lookin' good, Redondela (not)

    15 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ ⛅ 64 °F

    Maybe it's an unfair first impression. I don't know.. after a long strenuous walk, I had a hard time finding a place to stay and the weather is grey, so I'm a little grumpy.

    Spain is very different, not as tidy and manicured as Portugal. More rustic. Don’t get me wrong; I love Spain, but after guidebook descriptions of Redondela being "delightful" and "charming", when I got there, I just wasn't feeling it. Too many cars and grimy buildings decorated with graffiti. A slight whiff of spoiled fish. The people are unattractive. Even the PIGEONS... take a look at this piece of work sitting on my table like my new BFF. Looks like he got dredged in hot grease. He's also missing some toes. Then another pushed him off, looking to get into my tapa-action. Feathers are a little smoother, but missing parts of both feet!

    Getting outa here first thing tomorrow.    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood
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    Lugar de Corgo, Portugal to Tui, Spain

    14 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ ⛅ 64 °F

    After the communal dinner with laughing and singing at Fernanda's and her big breakfast spread the next morning, I headed out.

     The path passed through old oak forests, vivid green meadows and small villages, each big white house with an immaculate vegetable garden and grapevines over arbors. Everyone must make their own wine. At times, the trail followed 2000 year old Roman cobblestone roads, picturesque bridges over streams.

    The next town of some size was Ponte de Lima, a part-Roman, part-Medieval bridge connecting the two parts of the city over the Rio Lima. A small city with fortified towers and lots of narrow, cobbled alleyways, mostly just for strolling. I'm not sure why I don't live there. If you ever visit Ponte de Lima, you will wonder that, too.

    When I arrived, sitting at a cafe table outside the municipal albergue were John, the New Zealander water activist having a beer and talking with Jared, the Canadian motorcycle mechanic, debating the merits and pitfalls of different sources of alternative energy. They had just met. Two of my favorite pilgrims so far, so I crashed their party. I learned that electric cars are not really sustainable because of the batteries (wasteful to produce and to throw away), and that it's not that hard, with some new parts and tinkering, to adapt an inner-combustion engine to run on hydrogen.

    I slept in the "municipal" albergue where one of the Austrian stork sisters poked me twice during the night because I was snoring. I don't want to be "that guy" (I too hate people who snore in the albergue) so I've decided to seek out private rooms after this. Not much more expensive for vastly improved comfort and often a private bathroom and shower!

    Leaving Ponte de Lima, I fell in with Sean and the Dutch couple, Frank and Gabrielle. The three of them had developed a series of inside jokes and I was quickly brought up to speed. Together we climbed steeply 575 meters (almost 2000 ft.) on a rugged, rocky trail through pine forest up to Alto de Portela, the summit, and ate lunch. Many of the pine trees have a section of bark cut off and a bag attached below, catching the fluid. Turpentine? Sean commented that, without some level of fitness, this climb wouldn’t just be a piece of cake for a lot of people.

    Throughout the climb and the long steep decline, Sean mewled about his blisters. No one wanted to hear about my knee, though.

    At Rubiaes, I peeled off from my friends and found a comfortable hostel outside of town while they continued on. I think I was the only person staying there. I asked the hospitalero in Spanish about dinner options and, as usual, he understood me but I couldn’t understand him. But with some words in common and sign language, I figured out that I was to meet him in front at 7pm and he would drive me somewhere to eat. He drove me to a café down the road a ways, which apparently is his place too, because he went to work at the bar while I ate and then drove me home afterwards. I spotted the German amoeba pilgrim group at another table and they waved.

    Leaving the next morning, next to the church in town I found an ancient Roman mile marker! These stones were placed by the Roman military to mark each 1000 paces (counting steps by the left foot). Later on the walk, I passed another one.

    I hiked on alone through more gorgeous, rural Portugal for about 23 kilometers, meeting up and walking with Father John for part of it. I like that guy.

     Finally, I entered the walled, Portuguese border town, Valenca, passed through the fortress tunnels to emerge onto a long bridge over the River Minho into Spain. Along the Camino, there are hand-painted yellow arrows to help with navigation. However there were long stretches without them, including at forks in the road and it’s not hard to get lost. So I thought it was funny that there were yellow arrows painted every few posts along the high bridge over the river, like there was anyway to make a wrong turn?    En savoir plus

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  • Jill GatwoodJill on the Camino PortuguesJill Gatwood
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    11212

    Cast of human and animal characters

    14 juin 2019, Espagne ⋅ ⛅ 66 °F

    I've walked 57 kilometers since I last posted (80 before that) and have crossed the border into Spain. Am taking a rest day in Tui.

    Animals seen so far, besides the usual domestic ones:

    Starlings like we have, but with bright orange beaks I rescued one baby off the road and put it on a limb where its mother could find it.

    Small nondescript brown birds with a beautiful, varied trilly song, magpies, seagulls, herons, and many other birds I can't identify

    A small brown vole ambled across the trail in front of me

    Green, whiptail-style lizards

    A dead grey-brown snake (about a meter long)

    Small tree frog-size brown and green frogs near springs, Larger Leopard frog-size green frogs in rivers and ponds. I followed the frog-song and grabbed a tree frog to show Sean and he squeaked like a little girl. Apparently he has a frog phobia.

    Human Cast of Characters:

    More people are showing up on the road and I've gotten to know some of them a bit as we leapfrog past each other walking and meet up in cafes and albergues.

    Sean, the British ex-policeman who drives a London cab. We keep meeting up again and again.

    The Czech woman with her 3 1/2 year old son

    Tricia, who lives 1/2 mile from me in Albuquerque

    Father John, wearing his long black robe and carrying his backpack containing - along with his regular walking gear - props used for saying Mass along the way. He's from New Hampshire and belongs to the Brothers Fraternity of St. Peter. He was invited to walk the Portuguese camino with an American family as their spiritual adviser; he’d walked the Camino Frances a year ago. Before I met him, Sean and I were walking along and he was describing this priest in a long black robe he saw and just then we turned a corner and came upon Father John sitting on a step. Sean said, “Wow, I was just telling her that I saw a priest in a black habit walking down the trail!" Fr. John replied, "that sounds like the start of a joke."

    The next day I walked with Father John for a while and I told him about the Virgen de Guadalupe mosaic mural I worked on for the Franciscan friary. He said, " I'm surprised we haven't run across any of them. This path screams Franciscans to me." We ate dinner together; I had a glass of wine and he ordered a Mojito. He wasn't walking with the family for a few days because he's required to have a 5 day solo retreat every year and he's taking that now. Apparently drinking and goofing around with me during his retreat is ok!

    Richard Parkes, the New Zealander writer and water activist who I pass every few days, sittting outside a cafe pounding away on his solar powered laptop.

    Two impossibly tall, thin Austrian women I call “the stork sisters.”(to myself, not to them)

    The group of Germans who are absorbing other Germans as they go, like an amoeba on the trail. They greet me but usually don't invite me to sit with them, because they don't want to have to speak English. One of them whistles constantly, which I really think is worse than snoring in the albergue.

    Xiao Yin, the Chinese man who lived in France and doesn't have a plan after this. He envied my poles, so tromped down into the forest and broke a couple of sticks for himself.

    A sister and brother from Mexico, across the border near South Padre Island. They are in their 20s, she wanted to walk to Fatima, so she brought her brother along and after Fatima, they are now walking to Santiago. So nice to hear and talk Mexican Spanish! They were at Fernanda's albergue, too. Buena gente.

    Older South African couple who are forever indebted to me after I gave them my Brierley guidebook to the Camino Portugues, when they lost theirs. I keep thinking they will give up, but they are real troopers, walking some good mileage each day and I run into them again and again.

    Jared, the young climber/motorcycle mechanic from Alberta, Canada who was living in Peru and then found a cheap flight to Europe and started walking the camino on a whim. He only follows the route sometimes, then gets lost for a day or two. He has a knee injury from bull riding. We talk motorcycles whenever I see him, which turns out to be often.

    Frank and Gabrielle from Holland, with fine-tuned sarcastic senses of humor.    En savoir plus

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