Rois

If you’re going to embark on this one, might I suggest you get a big cup of tea first, were the option open to me that’s what I’d be doing right now.

One of the long-standing attractions of Caldas de Reys is the geothermal bath. We’re not talking country-club and fluffy towels here, but it is free. I did get the opportunity to soak my feet for a while. Lovely and warm actually, and by the feel of it high in magnesium. (Photos)

It’s a great little town, nicely ordinary.

Very much missing Mrs Henrythedog and Henry the (actual) dog now. I am extremely fortunate to be not only supported but encouraged to set off on my own, pretty much at will and to have the (relative) youth, health and funding to do what I do. I don’t take any of that for granted. (And a lovely dog of course).

Strangely meloncholy? I was on the Ribiera last night, it always has that effect. The only advice apparently handed down from my maternal grandfather, who I never knew, was STB. Which advises that one should ‘stick to beer’. Sage advice indeed.

Breakfast time. It’s pouring down, even more than expected. I’m not very metric other than for distance and 5 litres per square meter per hour of precipitation might as well be in code; but I now know that to translate to ‘Dear God, look at that!’ in imperial units. I’m keen to get on with it though.

I still very highly recommend the Pousada Real - well appointed and staffed and a bargain at the price; but the boutique-style faffing around has it’s place and it’s not when seeking a swift breakfast. I listened carefully to the description of the organic certification of the tomato which was to be blended for my benefit; chose politely from the long list of bread on offer; was reassured by the fair price paid to the smiling coffee farmer for his produce, but when being introduced by name to the happy cow who was pleased to provide the milk for a long-overdue ‘con leche’, my thin veneer of urbane sophistication cracked and I had to ask firmly that they just got the damn toaster on and bring me a coffee. Ahora mismo, or sooner.

Well, the atmosphere did change, as though Hagrid had arrived late at the vicarage tea-party and loudly broken wind.

I can only keep it up for so long.

A couple of hours later and I’m sat in a wriggly-tin bus shelter outside Cimadevila with a face like a slapped-arse watching the rain bounce off the floor. I mistakenly passed-by the short diversion down to the truck stop on the N550 and then the ‘autosevicio’ in San Miguel which I assumed would be a 24/7 vending machine turned out to be another closed café.

Whoever’s got the franchise for supplying ‘cerrado’ signs must be driving a Ferrari by now.

Every day’s a bonus but there’s a distinct lack of spring in my step today. On the positive side I’m not relying on a disposable plastic poncho (the young people who are are perhaps regretting not doing a bit more looking at the sky and less looking at the phone). If my memory was better I could tell you the Finnish for ‘when’s this bloody rain going to stop?’ as the young Peregrina concerned was shouting it every couple of minutes.

Whilst I detest waterproof trousers with a passion I’m not so stupid as to not pack a pair at this time of year, although despite the assurances of Messers Gore and Co my ex-officios are currently carrying a good half-pint of what you’ll join me in hoping is rain-water. There is only so wet you can get before it really doesn’t matter any more.

Things are looking up (although I’m not, so as to avoid a face full of rain) in that there is an unexpected auto servicio in Cándide. Coffee and a snack machine and a clean serviceable lavatory for 50c. I probably deposited €2 worth; so that was a bargain.

Kathy in Canada (who I previously had down as a bloke in Portugal - given that I identify as canine on here I’ve no room to criticise) has helped me out in researching the train situation back from Santiago to Porto on Saturday, and it’s looking grim. I have also got a bus ticket though, so that option’s open . (Later in the day RENFE sent a short explanation which roughly translates as ‘sort it out yourself, loser’)

I’ve always been good at time and distance. Through long practice I can look at a map, make corrections for height and figure out duration with a good degree of accuracy. Today’s different. Probably through stomping through the rain in a foul mood I have made rapid progress, and I’m in Padrón for 1130; which clearly is beer o’clock.

(Some comedian’s opened a cafe in Padrón which I refused to patronise because the jokes wearing a bit thin. (Title photo)

My plan was to stay at the Hotel Scala, just north of Padrón but as I’m already soaked, and the forecast for tomorrow is equally grim, I’m going to plough on. First though, I’ll take an hour to give the licenced trade of Padrón a leg-up.

Fifteen minutes after passing the Scala, from where came the sound of merry lunchtime conversation and a sense of functioning central heating, the appeal of my new plan is rapidly diminishing. It’s still pouring down.

Another hour and a half and I’ve called it a day at the clean and spacious Pension Glorioso. Cheap as chips - although chips and any other form of catering are not on offer. A close-by bar threatens to open at 1900.

I’m now drying everything not in my rucksack on one of those ‘do not dry clothes on this heater’ heaters. I’m sure the warnings are over-cautious.

The good news is that I’ve only got 16 kilometres to Santiago; although there seems to be a distinct absence of catering until the Cathedral’s in sight.

More tomorrow.Read more