Pontedeume to Presedo – 30.0 km

It’s another wet day, although the rain fell like a fine mist, so it never fully saturated my socks. For the first time in a few days, I ended my walk without my feet turning into prunes.

The streets are empty as I leave Pontedeume in the early morning.

I caught up to an Englishman from Cambridge named Jasper. He’s young, married, and completed the Camino Frances six years ago with his college buddies. Back home, Jasper manages a pharmacy, which he refers to as a chemist, and his wife, who is a competitive karate athlete, cares for high-needs children. They dream of living and working abroad, but they’re not sure how, since neither of them speaks any languages other than English. Their biggest challenge is in making life decisions that would balance work, travel, the possibility of children, and the desire to eventually own a home. That is to say, their challenges are similar to those of other young couples.

Quiet trail for solitude.

The walk today reminded me of my time recently on the Camino del Norte – lots of hills, a nice combination of hiking paths and town roads, inevitable rain, and, of course, my seemingly endless ability to take a wrong turn on a well-marked trail. For the latter, a friendly local walked me back the 500 meters to where I had missed the turn, shook my hand, and said, “God bless.” What a fabulous trail angel.

Crossing a medieval bridge.

My albergue today holds 16 people and more than half of the beds are filled by a friendly group of Portuguese pilgrims. One woman was limping, so I asked her about it. She showed me a rash on her foot that she thinks is an allergic reaction to a cream she had applied. I offered her some of the baby cream that I used for a rash on my leg, but she refused, fearing an even worse reaction. I brought her some German chocolate that I said would magically clear up her rash. She laughed. Suddenly, everyone was pulling out chocolate and crackers from their packs and we had an impromptu picnic in the albergue’s tiny kitchen.

My albergue for the night.

The Portuguese folks invited me to join them in town for dinner, but I’ve waited four days to find an albergue at which I could boil water for the Pasta Pot I’ve been carrying around, and since the boiling water had already been poured, I passed on the invitation.

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