Mood Swings, Puffy Feet and Cobblestones

Right from the start, this day did not augur well.  Lise’s jet lag was settling in nicely, and it brought a few gremlins. The guidebook, our 'Bible', was confusing, and bad waymarks made finding the Cathedral a challenge, keeping us at loggerheads.

We set off at 8.30, knowing we had a long trek ahead. Our destination was Barcelos; we’d stop for lunch in Arcos. I had some unfinished business with Antonio. 

A mother always looks out for her chicks! Look at ducks; they walk in a row with the Mum in front. No matter how old a child is, when they’re in our presence, we mother; it’s instinctive. So I reached out and, in a commanding voice, asked Lise to get off the road as a car was hurtling towards her. I was relieved when she responded with humour, showing how camaraderie can lighten tense moments.

We found the markers and were traipsing through an industrial area after a peaceful walk along the river. This would be the beginning of our battle with cobblestones, those ancient relics we admire and find so fascinating and old-worldly. Soft, pampered, and pedicured feet and cobblestones are a challenge.

Lise’s feet were excruciatingly painful, each step a reminder of the cobblestones' challenge, but she was determined to soldier on despite the agony.  

With the new shoes on, her mood shifted by a degree, but I couldn’t help asking (out of concern) how they felt. Eish! She turned around and said, “Like slippers, Mom, slippers!” Before turning back, she gave me the finger! I couldn’t stop the unbridled belly laugh pouring out of me! As the pain subsided, we regained our equilibrium and good humour and managed to make it to Arcos for lunch.

Initially, we would’ve stayed over in Arcos, which, in retrospect, might have been the better option, but Barcelos offered us a rest day; I thought we would need a day to recuperate. I made a reservation at Quinta Sao Miguel de Arcos in January and paid a 16 EU deposit, which was refundable when I cancelled our reservation. Antonio and I agreed it would be easier to pick up the money, as he did not have the facilities to repay me electronically at the time. I was reimbursed, and we set off to have lunch with other Pilgrims in the village.

We must’ve looked a terrible sight as we lumbered around the corner, hot, tired and in agony. The very intuitive owner took one look at us, made us sit down, and offered us some cold water and delicious baguettes filled with crispy lettuce, ham, and the reddest tomatoes. We pulled off our socks and boots - the relief! Relax, breathe. We got hooked up to free Wi-Fi (WeeFee, as it’s pronounced). We had free Wi-Fi everywhere.

In a moment of painful frailty and desperation, at the end of her tether, I suggested to Lise that she take the bus and meet me in Barcelos. My heart ached to see her in such agony. She had just come from another continent, across a 7-hour time difference, to this reality. A long, cold Prairie winter makes it impossible to exercise outdoors; her training was solely in a gym, and that’s not good enough. A treadmill, although an excellent alternative, doesn’t prepare one’s body for the rigours of an outdoor adventure, especially 8 or 10 hours on one’s feet. Walking for hours on cobbles, uneven gravel and tar all take their toll. Our server said there was a bus stop at the end of the road. She could relax and even take a nap on the bus. But.

It would not be an option. Determination and bloody-mindedness kicked in. She’d made a commitment to me, and she would walk; alternatives were not negotiable. "Regret and disappointment would last a lifetime; the pain wouldn't," she said. She would take more painkillers and anti-inflammatories, and we’d walk. Her music helped; without it, life wouldn’t be worth living, she lamented. I had to hum “It’s a long way to Santiago” to the tune of “It’s a long way to Tipperary”. We did have the kindly restaurateur’s assurance that the road ahead would be easy, as he gave each of us a shell. He was very intuitive, wise, and empathetic, and could see more than he let on.

It was in the heat of the afternoon that the Madam had another moment; she was unloading, not emotionally, thank goodness, but her pack. Out came the soaps, creams, and essential hair products. I didn’t comment! The liberation of unpacking the things she thought she couldn’t manage without was emancipating; one could sense her lightness.

Our paths took us through farmland, forests, and small cobble-stoned villages. Farmers were harvesting grain, and their friendly waves and shouts of “Boa Camino Peregrino” could’ve come straight from a film script. The lady accompanying her husband on the tractor looked so romantic, capturing the charm of local culture and scenery.

Vineyards are covered in the palest green leaves, with bunches of tiny new grapes. Ancient walls, still saturated, are bedecked with flowering vines, mosses and lichen. Here, one can still live a simple rural life. Spring flowers are still abundant; the whitest icebergs, purple-flowering onions, lavender, hydrangeas, and tiger lilies reminded me of our gardens at home.

 It was during the afternoon walk that a German couple overtook us, and the race was on. The competitive me picked up speed. They were going at a good clip when they passed us in the forest, and I must admit it irked me somewhat. So it was with glee and unprecedented gloating that I noticed the man had foot problems. He was sitting on a rock, his head in his hands, down in the dumps. I zipped past! I did a little jig, air-pumped my arm with an Amandla fist, and bellowed “YES!”

Ha! It wasn’t 100m later, while whistling away, that my littlest toe "popped"; it literally exploded. I was done for. I couldn’t put a foot down. I thought my toe had ruptured and burst, convinced the profuse bleeding would saturate my sock and soak my leather boots.

My laboured squeaks to Lise went unheard because she had her earphones in and music on. I was dumbfounded and didn’t know what to do as I hobbled on, trying to catch up with her. She has the stride of a giraffe. Fortunately, we have hiker’s rules: the person walking in front must always wait for the walker at the back, or at least keep her in sight. 

There she was, waiting, resting against a wall. My sweet child. Bless her. Bursting into what could be called intemperate tears, I told her what had happened. I was mortified. Insufferable. What’s more, the Germans were going to overtake us. Talk about eating one’s words.

As gently as she could, she removed my boots and socks, and there sat my toe, looking perfect, with no sign of damage. No blood, no blister. Inconceivable. An internal injury. I’m sure I broke a bone or tore a ligament. Lise strapped it and bound two toes together while she scolded me for not wearing my socks inside out! Oh Lord! How much more must I endure? I gulped down a handful of painkillers, silently thanking my wonderful GP.

We waited a while, and then I laboured to get up, a geriatric. I eased my swollen foot and throbbing toe into my boot as gently as I could; I was ready to crawl into Barcelos if I had to. Every muscle in my body had seized up, a case of acute musculoskeletal pain and stiffness. My child was gleefully smiling again; much easier when one has an accomplice. We were in the same boat.

 The moral of the story. Never gloat. After pride comes the fall; the irony was that the smallest, most insignificant appendage on my body was causing the most pain, discomfort and grief. A reminder that the small things count. Pain and exhaustion kept us focused today; the challenge was how we dealt with them. Best medicine: laughter, seeing the bright side and focusing on the bigger picture, which was our commitment to each other and why we were there.

The smallest villages have beautiful churches; we’d stop to rest, sometimes sit, and let our thoughts drift. Fountains with the freshest, coldest spring water would come to our rescue just when we needed to fill our water bottles; the few minutes' respite would be enough to boost our morale and send us on our way, rejuvenated.

Once again, we’d been misinformed about distances. My Garmin had let me down once more; it had packed up hours and kilometres earlier. I vowed I’d not believe another word anyone told me about distances. Away with our "Bible"; don’t trust a road sign. Google Maps is for roads; TripAdvisor is only good for showing you where to go to a restaurant or hotel, and the only way was to follow the yellow arrows. What a relief that decision was.

Trust is a many-layered thing, and although I do believe that advice is always given with good intentions, I wasn’t going to be led down the garden path again. We learned that city limits are almost like our districts, so when we saw a sign saying Barcelos, it was the district of Barcelos, not the actual village; it was like seeing a Worcester sign in Rawsonville or signage for Hermanus when driving through Fisherhaven. The kilometres were still stacked against us. We estimated our distance for the day at 42 km.

There are always silver linings, and we encountered many. We picked delicious plums and added slices of old-fashioned, thick-skinned lemon to our water; the lemon peels were sweet and delicious, a good Vitamin C boost. The walk through the forest was a welcome relief, and the new green fern fronds were a magical sight. I could imagine Goblins and Elves among the leaves. But I might’ve been hallucinating!

Along the way, we found stones and other mementos left by pilgrims on walls and in niches. We weren't unique.

We made it to Barcelos, exhausted. Bunting was billowing as we entered the square, which one might think was especially welcome for two weary Pilgrims. We couldn’t wait to get our packs off, take a nap, freshen up, have a long, leisurely shower, slip into a little black number, and go out for a meal in the square. It was time to celebrate. 

The next day, we could sleep late, take it easy, relax, recuperate, and go shoe shopping.

We met some lovely people along the way, just long enough to encourage us and make us smile.

An auberge for pilgrims on the way.

"Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, an hour, a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside, and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever." Anon.