Compostele

Sunday twenty-third.

To the Camino Inglés (English Way) today. Five days to travel starting Monday to reach by Santiago de Compostela by Friday and earn my Compostele. Some other way is calling me so I won't fail again!

Departing Fisterra at 9:55 am to A Coruña for €13.30, pick up another bus to reach Ferrol at 12:30 pm for €7.20 and most of my emerging mental problems along the Camino Frances are resolving as we disappear to the north of Galicia; Just two legs today. Bus dropped me at the main station in Ferrol and there is no indication there is an albergues in the guide I refer to. As Ferrol is a modern naval sea port, with very little to dream about and not much pleasing to the eyes, I will aim for Neda today as the town is practical not beautiful. Once I found myself in the Spain Square I asked a helpful man the direction the Camino takes to reach Neda and so I was set on the path to discover a place to rest down for the night, clean my dirties and relax ahead of the next five days; I hope and expect to arrive Thursday or Friday properly mentally accordant, at 'one' with myself again and receive my Compostele (even if I feel this is a pointless pantomime, show or circus act).

This Sunday the longest day fiesta concludes and tomorrow is a bank holiday in this part of Spain. On this long weekend of revisions and decisions, over these lengthy days in 2013, I have arrived in Neda, with a useful and necessary McDonald's, passing some very interesting ancient weir and mill water features at the head of Rio de Santa Cecilia where it becomes Ria de Ferrol, and is crossed by way of a thin dogleg bridge causeway; twenty five kilometres since 12:30 pm.

This may well be my final week pilgrimaging this year and I plan to get back the UK cheapest option after a strenuous week sweating away from the thundering crowds. This albergue is locked up, but Linda of Bochum, North Rhine-Westphalia arrived a few seconds prior to me from Fisterra so is able to let me in and I am earnestly happy to have her all to myself if no one else arrives; humana humana humana! Balls, there are now 'only' eight in an albergues built for twenty eight; if the numbers stay the same I'll cry yippee and we start Monday perfectly away from the congealing mass of humanity undone on the Camino Frances; Linda is now safe; well she always was ...

But a confused old man!?! Always a confused old man! So I leave him looking for someone to stamp his credentials ... they must not be where he left them! Tonight I have the company of two Germans, four Portuguese and the old man; relax or you'll slip a disk. Five and a half inches of redundant, flopping in the breeze, disk! Walking from Ferrol was unadventurous, as you pass through hi-rise areas, with modern apartment blocks, and, apart from regularly asking if I was still on the Camino Inglés (and no one being all that sure), I arrive ready for a light snack and then early to bed.

Luckily for us King Lear (the mad seeming old man) didn't stay; he was perhaps looking for us to keep his disparate marbles warm? Linda and I went up to the Bar Excelsior I'd seen on Estrada de Castela for a little pintxo, a glass of vino for Linda and a local Galician sidra for moi then I ordered a meal; which indeed arrived as two plates fit for a king! There was me thinking I had only asked for a side salad, not a main meal, to go with spicy pork and chips. You don't need a McDonald's at two pm and have another full helping around seven thirty pm so had to leave most of the salad untouched. My stomach feels a little tighter and tomorrow breakfast will have to wait a while. The Portuguese mother daughter combo have gone out to await the celebration and songs of this Galician fiesta while I continue reading On The Road with Jack travelling back across The West with Dean Moriarty hot on his heels and I wish I had the balls to just to make split second leaps or knew how I could survive without the solidity of back up finances(but didn't Sal Paradise have his aunt to fall back on?). Truthfully I am not even tepidly interested in warming myself at this fiesta: even now there could be fun tonight, but I've removed my body from any direct assault by noisy people and am really happy with silence; I want to be shielded from the night of fire and fireworks, be ready for walking after locating breakfast. Age is my state of mind and I suppose that since regrettable Belorado/Burgos/Santiago/Fisterra much of my expectations on this way have just vanished into the ether; bring back my mental state in Cahors!

Monday twenty-forth.

In the morning Linda and I walked for about three quarters of an hour without breakfast before we ducked into an excellent café-bar just as the shutters were going up. Fantastic unexpected gem. Great green gage jam, supreme local bread, dark thick rich coffee and another dark rich and inviting Columbian señorita; 'humana humana humana'.

Leaving Linda earlier this morning I have arrived at a half way point - Pontedeume. Quite spontaneously I came up to the Parish Church of Santiago, which was built in the eighteenth century, and found a wedding, communion or something else in full swing. Perhaps I can hang around to mark up my Créanciale here so I've left my rucksack at the door and taken my place next to a nun and listened to what sounded like vows or some such? As it is getting really warm I have decided to perhaps rest my feet in this nice town and will go back down to the albergue on the sea front later. The main door slams behind me as a gentleman carrying a child comes in, then old priest splutters like Pope John Paul II into his microphone, people coughs, shuffle their feet and rock on heels: all very bland. As there is communion I join the end of the queue, like an obedient dog, and the old priest places a wafer on my tongue and exeunt as a vocal choir sings from above. No one to stamp my Créanciale here; I think this was a summer festival mass.

Briefly I look down towards the albergue peregrino for the evening, which is open but feels wrong, calling a chap who speaks zero English I get the wrong sort of vibe and as, I don't know when they open, I will considers continuing on to Miño later. But I don't know. I need to get my stamp here if I stay. I could do what I did yesterday and walk later this afternoon? No McDonald's here, thankfully, just excellent tapas and other fishy loveliness, but I will continue on!

After a super-mecardo Bocadillo, a refreshing Estrella Galicia beer and tin of superior brown lentils there is a stiff incline until you reach above that town and now I am in a paper bark forest which reminds me fondly of the Karri forest around Pemberton, Western Australia. The smell is elegant, enchanting, enhancing and erotic! Another eight kilometres until Miño to finish today's stage.

Descending deeper and thicker into the exultant forest the heady essence intertwines with a tribal dance chorus from much further than I fear to tread off the benign Camino and like rattling castanets pods of a bush pop open in the midday sun. Oh fern and forest, both, still greener art my emotional love than thou? French hostess in Logrono asked me what equivalent of étape was in English and from thoughtless and tired lips I suggested legs when only now I recoil in shock as I should have said stages.

Crossing a damned main road I then hit my very first Golf course in either France or Spain this Camino cuts the second hole, par two point five in twain. Up I drive myself through a heavily wooded round headed hill where I begin to feel very heavy and I am ready to rest a little. After so many twists and turns I finally arrived at the albergue; too much on a hot day really. As a fairground packs away and the long weekend collapses in on itself. My passage over two hills recall heavier wetter days in Saint-Côme-d'Olt and Espalion and I sing 'A hill a day keeps the dollars at bay'.

So I wait here wilting in the early evening sun, thinking whatever happened to a relaxing five day etape Daniel. Then I am left to recline after being driven to and from the bank by the two butch local constables (at least that is what I think they are) who look after this albergue. But, without a single word of English to help me understand the procedures, I am left here now alone miles from home and probably also miles from Linda too. A solitary night would be a good way to come round to an easier Tuesday walk. Eight kilometres tomorrow, as the weather looks to be more of the same, and Linda mentioned a stop after eight kilometres at breakfast which would give me a chance of seeing her again.

Phew Linda arrived here some thirty minutes after me so we went to the shoreline for cheap simple stuff to eat. Burger, chips, two beers and an ice cream: controversy with two burgers in two days, but what the hell fruit tomorrow and I'm burning a lot of calories. None of the Portuguese had showed before we departed for a meal and the youngest said that the 18 kilometres was all they had done of their Camino(I assumed they had walked from Portugal...).

Back by 9:20 pm and the four Portuguese arrive foot sore and weary. They have to summon the courage to call Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid again (our local camino officials) and we're in the wild north west of Galicia, yeehaa! There is no hot water in this Gîtes so forgive me for staying pongy for a second day.

Tuesday twenty-fifth.

Azure-ly assuredly a day for walking the shortest route possible. Slept deep yet woke up terribly exhausted. Yesterday was all round too tough so aiming for Betanzos, which is just over one tremendous hill and no more. Breakfast is essentially necessary now! Find a cafe as to be succeedingly provisioned over the day again might be really unlikely.

Leaving our evening's rest house for there is a comforting under floor heating this morning but still no hot water I brush my teeth and away with Linda, who has sun stroke, dehydration or some other malady so we breakfast briefly, say au revoir and I depart with two juicy figs. Passing through a smokie firework and saltpetre smelling trough overlooking the bay to my right I keep my eyes peeled for a clear sign I am on the Camino to my left. After an up at the heaven's gate kind of climb I hit the top through a passage of barking dogs cheering me on and eventually reaching a Cheech and Chong smoking house as I think about a saxophone for a maximum blower; that man blows! To walk alone to reach the top feeling canny. A pact of three suicide dogs as I trundled through Gas. You guys know I sin con Gas! I have sinned not. Now on only two occasions I have been requested to prove my identity: once buying a Big-Mac in Ferrol and just now in Miño buying silicon insoles; surreal precautions for showing my passport!

Missing a concealed scallop I went too far east along a road into an industrial estate before a red Citreon Bx set me back on the Way. Then first tinkle on this stage as I defend myself peering down at another heinous crime of a townscape; oh well! Didn't love the name and the view is a mental distortion! From this height I can still hear the con Gas man delivering sinned gas beeping his rancid horn a-la pop man driving Ben Shaw's ginger beer con gas circa 1978: Betanzos.

I take it all back. Ginger beer was so good in 1978 and Betanzos is better away from the northern views. The Pote bar. Pais. Home made Mencia. Grape variety. Very glad to be wrong. Them vino Pais! I couldn't be more wrong if I tried. Once you get inside Betanzos delve for bright finally minerally Rias Altas vino blanco! And now I am smiling on vino, queso and jamon but don't know which grape! And then old time Rias Baixas ... castles of booze! Give me this random love after a long journey and am ready for loads of locale boose tonight!

Such a jewel of a free town. Must try Betanzos. Walk from the north to start most moody and unexpectant. Passed the convent of wimples and through a gate the languid first alley/ginnel/snicket left and heaven of tapas y vinos awaits, but never ever trust a businessman drinking Rioja in Galicia they are stupid in a concept free empty head, whore shagging rituals, lip sagging lying and thick necked rubber eyelided blindness. What they ever know they learnt from a autobiography, but n'er lived the pleasures beyond abusing the locals. It's a never ending parade of nercs and nincompoops with dollar signs for irises and balance sheets for brains; a ball sack a purse of rusting crusty rustling Pfennig and hyperinflated Marks.

Up and over the hill I spot a Hawaii bodiced gentleman and wave at our similarity. Then t'other side and another eclesia and I chase a grey gull back to the sea as I sink a forth wine into my cheek via my jowl. Vinos back to the sleeping Slumbers! Awaiting ochei. Return to filling and filing in. Yet I did recommend this spot so it's just desserts! Adios while I relax further into Mexico, Jack, Dean, etc. A meal with Linda. Outside the breeze presents another possible weather forecast for the long'un on Wednesday away from the enduring heat and twenty five kilometres with new insoles to bring our souls together. Gentle, steep and more gentle so I wait next to Iglesia Parroquial de Santiago coffee prior to veg food and certainly local Mencia. The Portuguese lovely-ests carried on a few clicks more! Anguished!

Remember - Don't dance her down. Rias Altas Betanzos 2011. 

There comes a time when perhaps you come to know cheese, wine, beer, cider, bread, cured meats; etcetera, and your knowledge can reform views on combinations in France, Italy, Croatia, Spain, etcetera. Wow it feels nice to be useful but not conceited as two elder Portuguese take the informed opinion of an anglaterra and I am thing-ing on a wave of something reminding me of Riesling in this summer style. And so to bed? Yup. At the table to be asked by either a Parisian or Madridian which counties wine is best is vainglorious and extremely blinkered and I suggest the local vino or food is what you should respect? To me it is always the Pays/Pais/Country stuff you should chose to vajazzle! I don't care whose countries wine you think is best I retire alluring towards love for arnica oil that was chased from Saint Albans, Margeride to Betanzos, Galicia to soothe my sore calves and feet!

Wednesday twenty-sixth.

Oh yeah! That's right it's five am. Wherever there's a crowd there's an urge to wake earlier and earlier so I splash the toilet and then return for a broken hour or two as pissing pilgrims depart before the dawn.

At seven am I rub my eyes as the distance yawns before me stretching it's paws like a sleepy cat. One day more to spend walking a long way in a race to rest ahead of another and another; are we back on the Camino Frances? Breakfast first to battle with my crowd demons! Coffee twice toast and honey and head up to Bruma. Passing over the railway up into a shady wood. Ditto Eucalypti. Next stop Bruma. I am not quite on the road to Rangoon!?

There goes a white haired shell-suit wearing Spanish Jimmy Savile, I am sure, walking a tiddly dog! 188 metres from the soil and no longer jangling. Passing all up early bed jeepers creepers and now to Fixoi (a holeoi that runs through the mindoi and stops me wanderoi). Onto the last stretch up the mountain side to Bruma you see many examples of taxi numbers if you need a get out clause and after a stubbornly unendingly steep and strenuous climb I had to collapse around an hour from the end and it was cool indeed under the composite leaf cover. Drinking and eating and feeling a little fresher I set off slowly to conquer the toughest section and find r&r. Some of the mightiest Eucalyptus trees are a grey-white towering concretely o'er our heads.

The final section of this etape feels murderously upwards and my energy levels are virtually at zero. Just before we reach Canis Major I thought I'd missed the turning for the Camino and I was out of water entirely. Finally replenished flask and I hope now I am amongst farm buildings this is the final of penultimate hill? Something feel like Michael Palin at the start of Monty Python's Flying Circus 'it's' Bruma!'

Utterly fucked! Saw no one for miles and the hills and bends kept on coming, but finally arrived at Bruma. And now for an inverse probability law. The further from Ferrol you travel the worse the breakfast is, more grumpy the patrons and the higher the prices. Every stage or etape feels like the vortex of Santiago is gripping mercilessly. No one speaks any English at the albergue and it is simply impossible for me to recall a word in English, let alone Galician Spanish, when I've just been bent over, over and over forced to touch my toes; my bed I forced the official to give me at €5, as it is all I have left(not 6). The bed last night wasn't long enough for me to rest easy, thankfully tonight's is spacious and accommodating! Arrives a freaky German man who wants to stick to me like glue suddenly and some bloody loud Spanish host who must be partially deaf. Yet I don't speak either German or Spanish yet you both talk to me as though I am native tongues! And Spanish hosteleros speaks like a man jibbering possessed and has a rotating false hipped walk; oh but I just love the remoteness and will not worry about the clientèle. I removed zwei arachnid from about my bed: one heavily with egg sack. They went outside.

One by one we were joined until all last night's pilgrims touch this headstone of a hostel. The dark eyed German stares glowing glowering licking his lips at any word I say so I dive across the street to eat frankfurters and drink tepid petaliant alberino and presently arrive the four horsemen. Retreating to my spider free den I hide with my bottle and Linda feeds me chocolate and almonds as I review the day.

So now Jack is now complete what next? Dean didn't die physically, as I thought he would, but he had reduced to a beyond help skull. The Mexican trip was a peregrination too far into the heart of darkness. Sal and Dean lost something in Gregoria which tipped them too far apart; forever. Now twice the crazy Spaniard woke me with his sniffling dribbling loudness. It's an odd albergue in Bruma and the nearest café is an hour onwards! Will be an unsteady Thursday maybe? When did pelerin/pelegrino(in my mind) become peregrino(as it always was)! Bastards all of you!

This Parisian girl is so alluring I just wish wasn't at a distant 41, elder of the tribe, apparently bearded and she wasn't off to a wedding on Saturday! Everything about her is really sensational and yet her Madrid boyfriend seems in an oddly unable to deal with what he has caught; lucky swine. Mama (although I've not felt the horn once on the way apart from morning glory)!

Thursday twenty-seventh. 

Must be time to collect my weary body and continue. Etape cinq. Breakfast of coke, orange and banana. There is a chilly breeze. Only thirty clicks today! A speedy eight kilometres to a good casa café and toastardos and noon approaches; only that is quite clearly a contrived confusing lie. As God is my witness the shade and my long shadow falling westward(ho!) suggest it is a mere ten am. Sigueiro not many skip along the yellow brick road now?

The last few Ks are directly through a 'bworing fworest', as Linda would/will happily remind me in her German accented English. It is straight as a die but better than the final tortures of Wednesday to Bruma. Mytrails app contiunes to lose me again so I am grateful I'm not in the Arctic tundra - GPS! - and the last two birds to welcome me are blue jays along the English Way which at this point is close to infinity and thin like pasta spaghetti.

This is the directly straight and seems the longest road I've ever been on with just a pair of boots; to relax with a shandy and then find the only pension in this modern (urrgh!) town. Limon and Cervaza is the ultimate refreshment. Modern town built on a wave of absolute busy nausea. I must await fate in a town that has the A1 passing through it's guts: I suppose in www.the.modern.world.this.is.life.com? Linda and the stranger stranger German, Wilfred, found me sullen faced and contemplating my doom from another woeful burger as all life careened passed me nose to rear bumper to front bumper to nose. With latent fear that I might get a nasty blister walking the 3+ kilometres to reach the first bath of at least a month without boots on, I am relieved to find the only challenge was a hill and an artfully placed stick sent to bloody my passage. Now I am post bath sandwiched between two brightly white towels I hang around for the Internet to connect and the last few days gulf to vanish.

There has to be something cool to actually wake up free of smells, snores, sly mosquitoes and seven o'clock sleeping bag roll-up return to bag? But I feel a little slammed by the high sun. We can stay at this 3* hotel until noon, which is ten am, and come to Santiago around 2pm, which is noon, to cheering masses. It will rain or be escorchio. At hotel HSV/ASH I won't be connected to share my days without a complex issue with routers and IP addresses! The final day of walking. Amazed at myself for being brilliantly resilient since all that was thrown my way since 21st May in Leeds, UK; bit vain too!

Of all the guys who left the final cafe this morning only the two Germans and I made it to this 3* Hotel(my only extravagant expense since leaving France); over a dinner of fresh tortilla and salad, tarte compostella and a bottle of Alberino we discussed which wine, movies, books we'd take to a desert island. I assumed they meant a book they'd not read before as you'd need something very long, interesting and unknown to you previously?

Friday twenty-eighth.

A late rise for me was just prior to seven am; some routine I am in! I am packed and will bathe again; I noted this morning the mozzies gave me one stinging in Bruma. Much welts! The time for breakfast has come and gone and I'm on the final stage. Leaving Hotel Saint Vincent, much lighter mentally and financially, and the town that disliked people: Siguerio. Sure! it won't let you down?

Checking down the way markers we break into Europe's The Final Countdown! Ochei heut act eight eidada kilometers just we three. Third or Fourth day straight when my GPS isn't registering so I can't measure my speed and distance. Not that it has any meaning as the end is nigh is in sight: 6.193kms. The early morning chorus of cockerels and sparrows; missing are the cuckoos from Aubrac and forever swallows swooping and swooshing and the moon hangs spinning half hidden with the north face disappearing.

Just gone midday I have reached the Oficina Del Peregrino. Found another helpful lady for two nights accommodation, if needed, and now I must wait patiently in a queue, like a bad boy awaiting a whipping - Compostele - a qualification for this simplicity?

The first time entering the City I missed the regal passage into the core of the heart of the fallen star. But now I am twice bitten. Yet there is no way I am clinging to that pathetically unreal need; listening to my heart is simple and so Compostele can wait and if the crowd disappears at seven I'll take Linda's advice and I will leave Santiago with a limit to my time in purgatory; it's official!

First call Vinoteca O Beiro and a glass of house Godello DO. Valdeorras with a Racion Salchichòn Iberico Bellota, vast green olives and pain. I wait in anticipation of Linda & Co. passing my locale about one pm. The WC Fields nosed local I saw last time I way on this street is dwelling, dressed in peregrinos fakery, supping a 1906 cerveza and so I moved to the crossroads on the final corner of the way to eat queso and a Spanish Riesling or two which is so far off the conventional track, a guerilla in our Rias Baixas midst, and the ocean of people passing east and west make me think I never knew a pilgrimage could undo so many?

So where is the trusting Santiago part two? The 21st century left me behind as the 0.01% watches in awe the horrible 0.99%. Wine rescued me twice in Santiago. But the rivers here run upwards in rumbling running bounding throngs. I wait for the answer here. I stopped for a wafer in Pontedeume. Faux town drunken peregrinos is back to watch me dissolve again. Life is thin so I ask for a Barrica Elisa Collarte four months in Barrique implant a density and happy vanilla mocha and a feeling of coffee ice cream on the long finish. Oh I do feel lucky to have been given this once in my lifetime opportunity to come across most of France and Spain; eat, drink, walk, sleep and complain. No matter that Santiago de Compostela aura sucks my left testicle. It looks beautiful and all roads had to lead here. Don't run run run any more. Time for fun, oh and there goes an Arabian knight? No! No, he's selling phony watches and that's all folks

Returning to pay for my first nights accommodation, and find those pilgrims I have lost by being so thoughtlessly fast, I am sat alone in the square opposite the vast Saint James homage I look at the small groups, couples or individuals waiting for any of the faces I know to join me, but I know none.

The first time as I came through the square I felt a tangible elation and in the smile spreading from my presence felt a leap behind my chest like the tug of something massive. Then now I find myself wondering if anyone has climbed the nave and transepts on the outside.

But really there is no treasures here! As the sky stretches, and reaches beyond the horizon, I can't help fear that has been cut out and sold by the square inch and all that is perhaps a Chinese copy and never ever again will we see the totemic original.

There is nothing solemn in pipes played never ceasing. You simply don't need any backdrop to the beauty of the star that dropped here and led prehistoric men onwards to any joy. Just let the world breath. Waiting for the closure of today back in Cervantes where the folk music still flows and is a gracious improvement on vagabond pipes and harp played 24/7. A tray of scallops to earnestly become a paid in full member of the Saint James club and Ribero del Duoro barrique aged; dense but insignificant  Seems white barrica is not common/possible: fancied a chardonnay fat buttery but there is no fat barrique white to be had von Cervantes Bar. For some odd off the cuff reason I just must fly/drive/escape anywhere Saturday. Nothing calm or good can come for me from being in Santiago de Compostela. Perhaps a trip to the open mercado early on the morrow; buy fruit. Just said Goodbye/Auf Wiedersehen to Wilfred and Linda; nothing to say: the end has come and I mumble to myself. Why should this normal place freak me so much. There isn't nothing-anything-something different from York, etc. an other tourist city. Check out an internet cafe to book a flight to northern England?

Oh to be sure that I found 'O Paris' bar again, such living relief as not easiest Boho place to locate in the street of thousands of faceless touristy monstrosity; where evil is displayed in tanks for our eating pleasure? There I asked for Sketches of Spain and, but for a slow WiFi connection, I would've been in Spain on my final night listening to that Miles Davis themed climax and in heaven again. When I return to the Pension above the bar and the old woman appears to be shouting so I returned through the hubbub back to 'O Paris' for the music, I sat in a smoking chair declining suddenly knowing I need to sleep. Back through town at 12:25 am and the bagpipe blower and another guitarist are still plucking the same chords. Got home via another happy German and think the campsite might be a better solution if I need to stay while a flight departs with my body in it?

Now I have discovered my room for this night has no windows. Not sure I can dig a cell for long and the old lady is reminding me of my mother too much... Nag Nag Nag. After much confusion about how I could fail to realise where my abode was in relation to the Peregrino Office; so much closer than my blindly stumbling feet had told me twice while passively stopping in Santiago; as said before I didn't feel it and, with beneficial advice, I will take a train to San Sebastian and on up the west coast of France home for a shave, a deep cleansing wash and a reduction in the physical weight on my back; cheers Ade!

Saturday twenty-ninth.

This morning youths are showing they gave no damn for the night or dawn; good on them. Penultimate jour pour moi. I find myself sat in voiture sept of a TGV from Hendaye to Bordeaux St Jean. Need one night in a Gites d'etape or relais before bon voyage a au revoir. Again France explodes in my face at how expensive anything is: €3.50 Croque M. No way am I even considering that. A cheese toasty for £3, bechamel is a blanc sauce. Shared a room with a French pelerin so €60 was not helling heavily weighing. Yesterday was a day of traveling and sleeping and purchasing travel tickets. Suddenly it is too expensive to roam unplanned and whatever happened to last minute sales?

But it is of no matter. The conductor blows his whistle and I can look at the many positives of my pilgrimage: I did it! One way or another I reached a goal that beckoned me unasked. Now to reach out for cafe noir. Coffee is literally more expensive than beer on a TGV. I moan, but it is just some beans roasted to a very high temperature in vast drums: not artisanale. The world is hooked on a profit margin that creates a down turned frown. How many more coffees would SNCF sell if there was a reduction in cost to a respectable level? Is France so financially bust? Part of my adventure is discovering I love France, but it is too expensive to return broke. Spain is more threadbare but usually food and drink don't leave you penniless. The juxtaposition of Arco to TGV as an example of each countries legacy. Mostly I have been attempting to leave France without it costing me anymore than possible.

My mind seems to be at ease today. Some demons arose yesterday but I told them shoo! I meditated and thought of just now and all the good worth/work/penance/perchance to dream a little since 21st. A long day of chanting on the train and checking into boarding houses built by Fawlty Towers femme Basile or Joan Cleese.

And what a great adventure! Although I loved France the best really some of the material people in this world just need to hear the intense heartbeat in our world which I am afraid to admit is always away from the maddening/madding crowd. For me being away from the cluster fucking of the cities puts my mind at ease. There is at least two speeds we could play at 33 or 45. Just choose the rpm and vinyl for your mind.

Unbelievably between Le Puy and Figeac I listened to no music, watched no news (consciously) or tv, read a paper, listened to persons repeating bad news or good. A girl on the train has Marshall headphones turned by twitching thumbs to eleven and eventually rippings her sides with a spread of yarns told gallically; Fluide Glacial.

Passing Biaritz and Bayonne today and another I missed out on yesterday San Sebastian/Donostia ; one day Basque I will bask.

Travelling by budget airliner is a little sinister. You pay for a ticket on a plane but not a seat? Can you just stand instead of forking out some seatage and We Got Back The Plague.

Blue Joni Mitchell to breeze away the new clouds. That I am open; gratefully her voice enters my thoughts and relieves. It brings out my tendernesses. Daniel, have a happy ending!

A competition to see who has the strongest biceps on coach seven. The North African lady, with a child, has massively inverse case. What illicit substances are being shipped; oh terrible stereotyping! Feeding a baby at 8:10 we wait for the TGV to pull out of Gare de Dax. I look and notice volumous breast; averting our eyes, oh Lord I am cynical and drunk.

Bordeaux. It has come to this. Finally Marmarlade with bitter oranges. Luckily I have found a heaven on Dimarche: Marche des Capucins. Back where I started on 22nd May. Cafe Noir and petit dejourner Chez Christopher. I carry home a reflection of sausisson Auvergne Le Carré Gournand. Reminds me of Borough Market circa 2008.

Two churches, one Tourist Info and now tram and bus to H'erbergement pour le pelerins and fingers crossed they have a bed. A nuit next to cemetery/cimetiére opposite Nationale Police La Bouscat. Route 29. Petit déjourner included for ten euros, but not open so need to return at 4pm to get my h'ebergement pour le pelerins. Enough time to see a little of Bordeaux. HA! If I could afford a cuppa cheval blanc to celebrate all these roads leading me to le grand chateau rouge.

Last night, after a much needed shower, I discovered I have worn a callus rough skin at the base of my back. My coccyx is worn like an old leather satchel and it is a wounded trophy I am content to have. Is it time to relax for in my new body. Enjoy summer 2013. Pizza in Bordeaux? Pizza Pino. Linda made me come for a pizza I am sure.

Randomness of the return trip to Wetherby is quite just the onroute positivity. So if France is frantically more expensive it has a flare and manner that more than make complete this if this is the vibe you're searching for. With bucks you can feel like a king until the pension runs out.

Fled the sweltering afternoon sun for the peace and tranquility provided in the relaxing surroundings of Les Refuge pour Pelerins de Compostelle provided by the Association des de St Jacques de Compostelle en Aquitaine here in Bordeaux; worth getting the tram C and bus 15 to 4 rue Blanqui in a suburb Le Bouscat. Four beds and Zen like silence. Food provided with donativo paid. Left to my own devices until 8am when I set off to the West on route one to fly away. Such a sweet tastes of nectar only a stones throw from the busy, expensive and bitter core; Bordeaux seems nice but I just wish not to be drained for three days running since I passed into Santiago; finally.

Sunday thirtieth.

Yep, even in France on a Monday mornings, commuters are running to catch buses or trams and getting their heels sheared off. Quinconces is the hub for a café and croissant and mass transits.

With a start I awoke after a worrisome night; there was a gargantuan effort between the heat, the sleeping bag, my body and that fizzingly fork tongued mozzie. Every time I heard it's high frequency humming the battle to end it's existence began in earnest: but the cunning insect had seen this coming and had an escape car ready to extract it from the situation. Hearing is not the same as seeing. Blood sucking git!

Magnum Kisses! It's an Ice Cream Choc Ice for the 21st century. If any girls kisses me and she tastes of cream she'll be straight to a dental hygienest. Bullshitting commercial Crap.

Before I dismiss Bordeaux in this soul searching eye there is the small matter of the Garonne. All the rivers I've been caught fighting in France come to here and it is a river dreams are built on. Vast and distractingly beautiful. Another time will come when I will be here for the Grand Cru and sweet love from a thousand eyes glimmering on the surface of life. Today is the 1st July and must be a hot one? The cars swarm passed heading north and south as my passage points west. Hearts and bank balances have been broken along the Garonne. Oh just because of the simplicity of implicitly true expressions of wine or love or both; Monday morning has no blues for me to be here; 'Yellow is the colour of my sweet heart's hair in the morning, when we rise'.

Louis Armstrong blows this morning as his doppelganger prepares a stack of chairs, 12 by 4 deep in the shade of the Opera House. Place de Comedie and pompous France dressers can't help laughing at the size of their wads. Take 99% of the people into the sea forever the world will resound to the rhythms beating back again, but the pain and Curtelin figue violette confiture extra makes amends for the foul dark eyed fools. Fugue away a while Louis strong-in-the-arm. Fini and en pay for final petit dejourner. Off we go; mentioning to a la Louis Armstrong his visual comparisons, paid for that Regently done breakfast and depart numero un; trumpetting the hour neuf. The flame of positivity spreads from my booted and baby powdered feet to my mozzie bitten exterior and to a glisandre of pride for my achievements. Thank you one and all who partook in a verily singular affair.

Canelés is the petit gateaux claimed to be artisan in bordeaux but they're everywhere. Distinctly common buns I would suggest.

The bigger the city the more I seem incapable of knowing where I left anything. My brain drains rapidly of absorbing and recalling membrane; a strange phenomenon.

As you hit an Airport all suggestions of fair trade simply vanish. Like a mirage shimmering in a sea you think you'll be saved but find the ship is indeed a slaver bound for arabia. Why doesn't the government break up this closed shop? I bought a bottle of water prior to the gates forgetting it is forbidden because the USA said so. I paid €2.25 for a litre of Vittel to have this vital prerequisite taken off my person. What fear is there. If the flight we're on explodes mid air what notions would I have that i could blame anyone for this control of my freedom/liberty. The world is quite lost to this uniformed and inflexible ideology of fear and resentment of anything slightly suggestive of doom. Check out Duty-Free and suggest that a good without duty isn't necessarily cheaper than a duty bound item. Usually the goods sold are premium products anyhow; recognised brands bound to attract the proud and the vain. I blow Issy M'Aki all over me without fear of remanstrances as I paid for that in extortions between airport and no man's land.

Finally we hit the perimeter before the stars, terrain and deep blue seas. I spoke after seeing a glimsed owl on left chest suggesting Yorkshire folks kindly natured heading back north north to the Steel city; wife Blades husband Owls - sounds like a house built on the old clique of opposites attracting in a leather on leather battle; usually Saturdays. Without feeling any resistance I asked them if they're going my way could I put my thumbs out before pressing in for luck. What ever is decided between them, between early afternoon Bordeaux and one o'clock Birmingham, is the flow. Kimberworth-y? There is no urgency for me. Why did I suddenly get the urge to be home instantly? It's all part of the plan. Husband is quite correct. An hour to pay more for my passage is quite irrelevant to the passage of time. That was my disappearing self raising a hand to grapple my mind apart.

The next way is beckoning me already, the South Yorkshire couple want to return home to see their grand kids and I needed reminding by that man not to fall back into the tide. Wishing him luck I picked up my belongings and fought to belong elsewhere.

335.22 from Le Puy-en-Velay to Cahors

123.52 from Pamplona to Belorado

110km from Ferrol to Santiago