A Guarda Northwards: The Portuguese Way to Santiago by the Coast (5)
Foam everywhere in A Guarda.
At 2.30 on the fourth day of this Camino I passed the impressive looking albergue in A Guarda. I decided to carry on walking: I can’t remember why but probably it was the forecast of another great cyclogenesis explosiva the following day. A few hundred metres on from this possible refuge I looked down on a sea of foam, as if the ocean was a giant glass of Guinness. A head of foam frothed above the shore and filled a little bay, enclosed by rocks below. It was a steep and difficult descent with uneven and large steps which were agony. Each of my knees had a different position for inflicting agony and my dodgy ankle sadistically joined in. After going down 10 metres I realised my breathing had automatically altered to capture every molecule of oxygen to appease my injured joints. Consciously I relaxed, affirmed I was in no rush, welcomed in the cold air, took a video of the foam then examined and planned each step like a professional golfer reads the green before putting.
A day of ups and downs.
I recalled that I had stayed in a small hostel in a little bay just before A Guarda and I told myself I could make it that far. Indeed, there it was, in the next bay, derelict looking, dripping wet and sad: closed all winter. After that the next possible refuge was impossibly far ahead. I told myself that, if necessary I could sleep outside.
Albergue I didn’t stay in, in
A Guarda
The Camino passes here close to the shore and the damage caused by the previous night’s storm was evidence of the fierce power of the sea. Large boulders had been hurled onto the path breaking up its surface. The waves had subsided significantly but were fascinating to watch and all my five senses registered the salt water being carried inwards by the spray.
Rocks scattered by the sea over the path.
I was aware that my pain in every step was fighting for my attention but my joy at the proximity of the sea was winning. Although this is a Camino by the Coast it had, so far, been at a distance from the shore.
This is why I chose this Camino.
I’ll indulge in posting some more sea views:
“….the sea flint-flake, black backed in the regular blow…”
This sea takes lives. These days the news coverage played a video of a man being swept off a break-water to his death and storm by storm the number of victims rose.
“…the cobbled foam-fleece..” G.M. Hopkins.
Ahead I saw an un-finished building, a sea-shore mansion which seemed to offer shelter.
Not the shelter I hoped it would be.
It was fenced off and I abandoned any desire to spend the night there when I saw the uninviting state of the shell of the palace, open to the elements and clearly a summer haunt for party-goers, full of waste and empty bottles.
I’m not sure if I missed the path at this point or not but the road fizzled out and then disappeared under foam. There was no knowing where I was placing my feet. Suddenly blind beneath my knees, I proceeded slowly feeling out with my sandals the shape and texture of the ground below.
My sandals sunk into the dirty foam.
No sooner had I passed this unpleasant obstacle than the path became a muddy river and then simply a wilderness of grass and river and brambles. I could make out a track at the other side this field and determinedly fixed my intention on reaching it. The roughness of the land with its lumps of grass and potholes of squelchy bog twisted and pushed at my lower joints. It lasted no more than a few minutes but left me exhausted.
The track was a relief and took me up to the main road which is, off and on, the Camino for the next 8 kilometres to Oia. It is safe enough since there is a cycle path and some good views of the ocean.
The main road, which is the Camino at this point, skirts above the coastline.
My pace had slowed even more and I was looking at every shelter calculating its suitability for the night. As evening fell I was approaching Oia and had spotted a few bus-shelters as possible bed-rooms in this night on which the next storm was due.
Night and storm approach.
Oia has a huge monastery, but, as far as I knew it did not take in pilgrims so I headed for the town which has a hotel. My state of weariness and soreness convinced me that I deserved and maybe even needed such a comfort. As I approached it I could see it, too was closed. This coast is not much visited in winter.
Monastery. Oia.
Opposite the hotel was a football ground and to my joy the gates were open. I’ve slept before in sports grounds and they often have some shelter. There was a small group of people under the stands who were rather surprised to see me. The only problem they had with letting me sleep there was that they had to lock the gates but, they assured me, someone would arrive by 9.30 the next day because they had a match at 10 am.
That night the rain lashed against the windows, driven by 100kph winds, as I lay wrapped in my sleeping bag. It was my best night’s sleep for many weeks. The miracle of sleep once again took away the aches and pains bringing new energy with the daylight. I slept for 11 hours and was just finished packing away my bed when the gates were opened.
My bed in the football ground in Oia.