Big Butch Battles Bravely

Like two pom-pom girls, we stood ready to welcome our Butch at Vigo Airport. We glimpsed him way down the passage, coming through customs long before he spotted us. He looked exhausted, thin and quite pasty (not at all like a Cornish pasty, rather grey and pale) around the gills. Lise had to stand right there, at the very front of the throng. When he saw her, his entire face lit up! He’d made it.

A harrowing flight he’d had, with four airports and long distances to cover at each terminus; he had no time to dilly-dally. At Johannesburg International, his woes began when a seemingly helpful official offered to guide him to his boarding gate, miles away. Turns out she wanted a fee for her kindness; otherwise, “he was never going to make his flight”—the cheek she had.

After a good pint, or two, of the local brew, he recovered his wit, and we could see the old raconteur come back to life. But we couldn’t spoil his fun by suggesting we walk the 28 km back to Redondela. It was so good to see him. We all agreed we’d make good use of the excellent transport system, and we took the shuttle into Vigo before taking the train back to our self-catering apartment in Redondela.

Redondela welcomed us with a lively festival, its streets covered in pine needles and spring blossoms, with traditional dances and a brass band in the park, making the scene vibrant and engaging.

On our street, a festive karaoke event invited anyone with musical talent to perform. In true Latin tradition, families and friends gathered at the cafes to enjoy the festivities, sing, dance and celebrate spring. We couldn’t resist the carnival air and sat down to our first traditional Peregrino meal. Three courses for 7EU. Not bad at all. We enjoyed watching everyone have fun, but we would have an early night.

With his Braai Master T-shirt on, Butch set off on his first day as a proud Peregrino at 6h00, when the city slept, or so we thought! We hadn’t gone 100m when we stumbled upon an open bar serving the freshest croissants and coffee. The aromas were intoxicating. It was a good opportunity to baptise Butch into our rituals. Coffee. Croissants. Or Pain au Chocolat. Butch loved the way night-shift workers and the remnants of the festival revellers would drift in, gather at the little cocktail tables, and order bottles of wine, aperitivo, or beer. At 6h00 in the morning! He still had to discover that in Spain the towns came alive at night and the party only stopped at dawn.

We were on our way to Pontevedra. At last! We had a spring in our step; we were really going to do this in our stride. As Lise strode off with newfound confidence, I could see her legs taking shape. Lean, toned and tanned. Her calves were muscular and her ankles sinewy. She was looking good. Our trusty flip-flops were going like Boeings; they were slippers!

A few walkers passed us as we made our way through lush indigenous forests, carpeted with ferns, mosses and lichen. It was mostly an uphill climb. I had to remind Butch to stay hydrated, and we’d stop at the fountains to rest regularly.

For some reason, as soon as I thought I was on a roll, something would happen to stop me in my tracks. And as luck would have it, both Lise and I pulled our Achilles tendons. There I was, back to hobbling. I shook my head; I could not believe it. Quite bizarre. We were determined not to be discouraged. Fortunately, a good dose of anti-inflammatory tablets and a generous dollop of Voltaren gel massaged into the affected area soon eased the discomfort.

Now, I must tell you about the cyclists. A Camino can be done in three ways: 1. Walk. 2. On horseback. 3. By bicycle.

Cycling is the only sport I know of in which a participant immediately looks like a professional once he dons that moulded Lycra suit, with all the advertising emblazoned on his back and chest, wears clippety-clop shoes and squeezes his head into a conical helmet. When he swings his legs over his trumped-up bicycle, he becomes a bloody danger to hikers because he thinks he owns the path. Cyclists, have you noticed, are herd animals, stay in slipstreams and always want to win, even on a pilgrimage.

Well, after the sun had risen and the poor Peregrinoes had put in a few kilometres and were exhausted, these pelotons would silently sneak up on us at one helluva pace, without any warning or bell. They’d expect everyone on foot to leap into the hedgerows or up an embankment so they could come flying past. They never greeted or thanked us. When we discussed this, Butch said he had encountered one guy with a bell who said, “Hi”. He must be very unpopular with the rest of the herd. I was petrified of them and had to keep my wits about me, always staying alert.

Butch couldn’t keep up, and I couldn’t blame him. We parted company; he set his own pace. I would wait for him at the next fountain. He was severely discouraged by the discrepancy in distances (according to the guidebook, 20.2 km; according to Google, 19.7 km). For a man who knew exactly where he was going, how far it would be, and probably how long it would take him, this was simply unacceptable! He was hot, dehydrated, and grouchy, and needed to get to the end of the day's hike.

Lise took off like a bird in flight and arrived at our hotel well before us, enjoying the meandering river through the forest. We had decided it would be best for each of us to have the address of our daily accommodation so we would not be hindered once we got into our stride. It worked well; we could catch up now and again, as we were able to connect to Wi-Fi and read WhatsApp messages.

As I walked, I thought that yes, we are made up of three parts, and we were connected: Body, Mind and Spirit. On that day, Lise was my body; we were so similar, and she came from my body; she couldn’t be more like me. My heart was Butch; I was constantly concerned about him and sympathised with him, but there was nothing I could do to help him except be there for him.

My spirit was what kept me going, the inner voice in my head egging me on, encouraging me when I was at my wits’ end, waiting for Butch, not knowing whether to turn back and look for him. My better judgement told me to go ahead, as I didn’t have the reserves to go back and forth; we’d both conk in then.

Men have this inability to ask for directions, and asking for help of any kind is unthinkable. So I learned that Butch would struggle, severely dehydrated, because he couldn’t reach his water bottle! The thought hadn’t crossed his mind to ask for help. This really puzzled me. I had to sit him down and read the riot act while he gulped down litres of water and rehydration tabs. My son’s words echoed in my mind: “Mom, we’re only as strong as our weakest link!” The Braai Master was buggered. He'd had his chips!

Once again, I didn’t get an accurate reading. My Garmin only finds its location in daylight or powerful light; the search also drains my battery, so on this day it packed up after 3h19 min and 13.10km. We must’ve done at least 27km that day. A helluva lot more than he thought. It turned out to be nothing like his hikes in Worcester or Onrus. Welcome to the real world, Buddy.

It was a Friday, and as you know, we had something to celebrate: my beloved had made it to Pontevedra. We were in Spain, and we’d promised ourselves an authentic Paella in a restaurant frequented by locals. We didn’t have to look far; all the recommended restaurants, even a Michelin-rated establishment, were right on our doorstep in the piazza... We were going to outdo ourselves; there would be no holding back, and the Kitty had had a healthy boost when Butch cashed in.

We let the good times roll, all right! Into the night, we ate a delicious Paella, a traditional local dish with huge langoustines and the nicest, juiciest boiled octopus. Sangria and wine flowed, and later the server brought out two bottles of homemade liqueur; we laughed and had another for the road. The Braai Master and his wingman were full of the joys of spring. For dessert, we went in search of ice cream, which had become our custom by then, and crawled into bed, exhausted but in high spirits! The BM was out for the count!

We were to pay a dear price and would suffer the consequences for a week.

We spent two nights in the wonderful city of Pontevedra. Vibrant, colourful and arty. A cosmopolitan city, steeped in history yet modern, it certainly caters for tourists who would like to browse in the fashionable shops, galleries and boutiques.

Restaurants are plentiful, and the food is excellent. On Saturdays, there’s a lively market with bargains galore, and locals practise water sports on the river. Lise and I loved it. Butch, on the other hand, spent the day in bed recuperating after forgetting his prawn allergy. He was miserable; all our mollycoddling couldn’t cheer him up! He did succumb to our invitation to dine with us at the 1 Michelin-starred restaurant (so we were told) in our courtyard, Restaurante Eirado Da Lena. We opted for the taster menu, and we weren’t disappointed. Service was excellent, and each course was beautifully prepared and perfectly plated. Although he wasn’t the man the night before, we can still say our meal was “fuera de este mundo” fantástico!

VERY IMPORTANT SIDE NOTE:

Every time I write a blog and recall how conveniently all our accommodation was located right along our routes, I think of my wonderful, organised, dearest friend Megan, who sat me down and worked out my whole itinerary. Thank you, Megs; you are a star and a friend worth your weight in gold. Without all your hard work, I’d probably still be wandering around Porto in a daze, completely lost to the world!

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ACCOMMODATION:
Alvear Suites
Pai Crespo, 30,
Redondela,
36800,
Spain

Hotel Restaurante Rúas Sarmiento, 20,
Pontevedra,
36002,
Spain

RESTAURANT:
Restaurante Eirado Da Lena
Praza Lena 3,
36002 Pontevedra,
Spain