Vilalba-Gabin-As Turbelas-San Xoande de Alba-Ponte de Saa-Penas-Casanovas- Ferreira-Baamonde-Santa Leocadia(taxi met took me to hotel in Parga) Walk Day 31

22.5 miles, 1247′ elevation          

“This mystery seems insoluble for the very reasons that make it soluble: the excessive, outré nature of the circumstances.” E.A.Poe

I finished The Club Dumas by Spanish author, Arturo Perez-Reverte last evening. A who dunnit in a classical literary book hunt, dealing with demonology and Alexander Dumas’ writing and life and times. Far fetched, historical, funny, lyrical, fact and clearly fiction, but worth the read.

I suffered today. The weather was hot and humid and over seven hours long. Walked with a whole host of peregrinos I’ve met over the month: Jerriie, Rene (from Holland), Mike and Ellen( live in Barcelona- Mike’s from London, Ellen from Barcelona), Serrena from South Africa, and Bettany from Croetia. Time and distance passed pleasantly with fellow travelers until I was forced to press on alone. I left the gang at a cafe in Baamonde and forged on for 7 more miles to meet another taxi at “the old school in Santa Leocadia”, which was on no map of the seventeen I have and no one else could find it on GPS or any of their maps. A limp of faith.

This portion took me up and through a national forest, where I saw nary a soul in any of the farms, hamlets, or vinyards. Walking during siesta  time can seem like a scene from a zombie/apocalypse horror film. Quite eerie; only the sounds of a few birds, the multitude of dogs brief barks as I pass, and malodorous scents of cow dung and sheep poop.

I had difficulty finding Santa Leocadia. There were signs to a rural Albergue, advertising food and drink, and parched and hungry  I walked there. The woman running the ancient Galician farm Albergue pronounced; “This is Santa Leocadia!” Even though really, it remained 1 km away.  Everything is ” 1 km away!” Had a beer, and followed her directions back to this ruin of a four building town, complete with the obligatory cemetery and dilapidated church, and there, the hollow halls of an old, empty stone school house, and sure as sheepshit,  a white unmarked citron sedan awaited. 

“Señor Lorenzo?” The dark suited fourtiesh driver asked, dawning his sunglasses and opening the rear, passenger door. Why of course I am! Hell, at that point, like stealing someone else’s limo at the airport, I would have said “Yes, I’m Señor Trump!” It’s uncanny and hard to explain how strange this phenomena is following a seven hour walk!? He wisked me away to a hotel in nearby Parga. I shall be returned tomorrow morning.