Camino Primitivo: Oviedo to Santiago in 16 days

In September 2012, Andrea and Gert Kleinsteuber walked the Camino Primitivo from Oviedo to Santiago de Compostela in 16 days – as a group of four, together with Andrea’s friend Jana and Gert’s friend Jörg. Gert tells in great detail about every stage, about the albergues, fellow pilgrims and the quirks of the Primitivo.

Days 1 and 2: Getting there

Our journey began on 6 September at 10:30 pm at Halle/Leipzig airport. We flew with Ryanair to London Stansted. We had to spend the night there, because our connection to Asturias wasn’t until the following day.

“We” means my wife Andrea, her friend Jana and my friend Jörg.

Andrea and I had already walked the Camino Francés from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port to Santiago de Compostela in 2011, and in May 2012 we had walked part of the Via Regia from Leipzig to Eisenach. Jana is new to the Camino, and Jörg had to abandon his first Camino in 2010 in Astorga after around 500 kilometres because of an injury. So we already had some experience, Jörg too, but he had a special motivation to reach his goal this time, and Jana had chosen a very tough start with the Primitivo and had underestimated the whole thing a bit. But to give it away right now: all of us made it.

Four people together on the Camino? Does that work? Yes, it works, if everyone puts their ego aside a little and you agree on some principles. One principle, for example, was that we stay together and that the pace is set by the weakest. Another was that one person takes on the role of leader, so as not to slip into endless discussions whenever opinions differ. This role was given to me, since I had already taken care of planning the stages and the journey. Besides, I have a pretty good sense of direction and I’m quite good at remembering place names.

The way was the same. The goal was the same. So why not? In hindsight, though, I have to admit that it was sometimes not that easy, especially when different habits clashed. Getting up, for instance: as a considerate pilgrim you toss and turn in bed for an hour to let the others sleep in. On your own you’d just grab your things and go. That isn’t meant as a reproach, just a personal assessment. My wife and I have been in harmony with each other for 35 years. On the Camino Francés in 2011 something like that wasn’t an issue at all. Still, it was a good time together on the Primitivo and I wouldn’t want to have missed it. We had a lot of fun and came through quite a few trials together. In the evenings there were no language problems when you wanted to talk about the day’s experiences. And when things got difficult, we helped each other. That brings you close.

Being alone on the Primitivo can, under certain circumstances, mean that you really are alone for days on end, even when other pilgrims are around. Because of where we grew up, we unfortunately learned the wrong foreign languages, and we’re also a bit lazy when it comes to languages. That makes a deep conversation hard, or rather it is so tremendously exhausting for both sides that you soon lose interest. Since I’ve always travelled with my wife, I imagine it would be very hard to be practically alone for a long time, and I’d burst with all my bottled-up impressions and experiences.

Many pilgrims report that only a few Germans tackle this rather demanding route. We can’t entirely confirm that. In our time alone there were up to 7 Germans or German speakers on the Primitivo (if you want to count Gabi’s Viennese banter or Jürgen’s Swabian – us Saxons, luckily, don’t ’ave no dialect!). From Herminia’s albergue in Campiello onwards there were even more. In many albergues that was almost half of the pilgrims.

But back to the journey:

The search for airport benches without armrests was quickly successful, and after we had celebrated my wife’s birthday with little cakes and Rioja, the night on the benches or on the sleeping mats was more pleasant and quieter than we had feared.

We had our backpacks with us as hand luggage. For the poles, knives, liquids, the little cake with a candle and two bottles of Rioja (for my wife’s birthday) we had checked in a shared, home-made cardboard box, which was eyed suspiciously at first but finally accepted at the bulky luggage counter after being X-rayed on the spot. “So where are you off to?” the attendant asked when she saw my outfit and the box. On the Camino de Santiago, was my proud answer. Word got around quickly, and so people were already wishing us a good Camino at the gate in Leipzig.

7 September 2012, 11:30 am: On to Asturias with EasyJet

Once again I had to go to the bulky luggage counter because of the cardboard box. Where does it actually say that you have to check in an industrially made suitcase? The whole thing becomes a test of patience, because in front of me a rock band is checking in with huge crates.

At 3:30 pm we’re sitting on the bus to Oviedo, because the plane was early and my cardboard suitcase survived the flight without any major injuries.

Shortly before 5 pm we arrive at the albergue in Oviedo, after dividing the contents of the “suitcase” among the backpacks at the bus station and then disposing of the empty cardboard box.

There are already loads of pilgrims standing outside the albergue. We count the backpacks – yes, there’s room enough! Most of the pilgrims had come from the Camino del Norte, but some also from León, and you could tell by looking at them. Many already had bandages or were walking a bit unevenly. Seems to be a pretty tough route over the Picos, I thought. But the Primitivo was also going to teach us how to sweat.

We are somewhat disappointed with the albergue. We had expected the albergues on the Primitivo not to reach the standard of those on the Francés. But it was a bit surprising that such a beautiful, large city as Oviedo doesn’t have more to offer pilgrims. Bear in mind that three pilgrim routes meet here! And so the albergue filled up quickly, and we hoped that not everyone sleeping here wanted to walk the Primitivo. Because then we’d have a serious bed problem over the following days.

Gabi (Gabriela Krause – what a name for a Viennese woman) then filled us in. She spoke very good Spanish. At first I actually took her for a Spaniard, since she didn’t really look Austrian at all and was chatting animatedly with some Spaniards. She will accompany us for the next two stages. “Most of them stop here in Oviedo. Only 6 of the Spaniards, two Polish women and a Dutchman are going on the Primitivo,” were her somewhat reassuring words. Then I counted: with the 4 of us and Gabi, that already makes 14, and we hadn’t reckoned with that.

After a walk around town, a visit to the cathedral and the market hall, buying some provisions for the way and a little welcome meal in front of the cathedral, it’s off to bed.

Day 3: Oviedo – San Juan de Villapañada

In September it doesn’t really get light in Spain until after eight, and we do want to see something of the landscape and the villages. Not so the Spaniards: almost all of them have already left when we get up at 7 and it’s still pitch dark outside. As I’m making breakfast and mumbling away to myself, a voice comes from the other corner of the room: “Oh, so you’re from Leipzsch an’ all?” – Philine from Leipzig-Lindenau. At just 20 years of age she is travelling completely alone, also wants to walk the Primitivo and has an old Praktica SLR camera around her neck, which aroused my interest even more.

So we were at least 15 already. But I was really glad of this company, and I wasn’t the only one.

On the edge of Oviedo

We set off at 8 and bought four bread rolls at the nearby bakery and were surprised at the high price. 5 euros for 4 rolls – these Spaniards are crazy!!

Through the very beautiful city, above which the sun was just beginning to shine, we found the right way quite quickly and also meet Gabi again, who stays with us all day, although she is surely much faster. At first she gets on our nerves a bit with her constant chatter. She’s an event manager, and that seems to be the reason for her being so wound up.

She first has to come down from everyday life. She manages that quite quickly, though, and becomes more likeable by the hour. Finally out of the city.

We walk at a brisk pace through meadows amid tall blackberry bushes. Here and there a small village, through which the route sometimes takes a detour. That way you avoid the asphalt, though in places it would certainly have been shorter and not quite as steep. But it was definitely more beautiful this way.

The length of the climbs and descents is still within limits, and our fitness seemed good on this first day, so we decided to walk as far as San Juan de Villapañada, just as I had planned from the start. The elevation profile of the Primitivo was going to challenge us enough, so I had planned to use the very first stage to make real progress, even though experience says you should take it slowly on long-distance walks lasting several weeks. That way we really cover some metres, or rather kilometres, on the very first day. Even so, we had the impression that we weren’t really making progress.

This impression was to grow much stronger over the course of the Primitivo.

In the time you plan for 30 kilometres on large parts of the Camino Francés, you usually only manage 20 on the Primitivo. The constant up and down gnaws hard at your stamina, and unfortunately you can’t walk any faster on the steep descents than on the sweaty climbs. You don’t really get into thinking either, as was often the case on the Camino Francés, where you had nothing else to do but put one foot in front of the other and now and then have something to drink or eat. Here you constantly have to watch the path in front of your feet, which is never dangerous but often very stony, narrow and rough. There are no wide pilgrim motorways here running dead straight alongside the national road. Here the way sometimes leads through the bushes along overgrown paths or over scree on very steep slopes. The waymarking, on the other hand, is very good.

You’d have to be pretty dim to get lost here.

Somewhere behind a closed bar, which at least supplies us with fresh drinking water, we have breakfast and at the same time solve the mystery of the expensive rolls. A chorizo was baked into each roll. My friend Jörg is a vegetarian and had a serious problem with that. But we did manage to fill him up with apples and dried fruit from home. On we go through the ever more beautiful landscape. Far to the east you can see the grey Picos de Europa shining in the sun. The visibility is quite good and a gentle breeze blows around our noses.

But punctually at 2 pm it suddenly gets very hot, a phenomenon we suffered from again and again. Until then it had been quite pleasant walking weather with bearable temperatures. So far the way had often led through shady woods. But now we really start to sweat as the route before Grado follows country roads and a dusty farm track.

The first bar in Grado is ours. It’s a public holiday in Galicia, so the choice isn’t particularly great. After a café con leche or a cool cerveza grande (depending on taste) from a frozen glass straight out of the freezer and a bite to eat, we head through Grado looking for food for dinner. Today we want to cook for ourselves. The only place we find anything is a small petrol station on the edge of town, where we stock up on pasta, tomato paste and of course vino tinto.

The bags really drag on the long way to the albergue, which lies a few kilometres outside town. Especially just past Grado a nice steep 400-metre climb lies in wait. Then at the turn-off from the Camino just a small climb up to Villapañada, and we reach the albergue at dusk. We are welcomed with a cup of water by the volunteer hospitalero Domingo, who also has beds for us. The albergue is wonderfully cosy, and we don’t have to worry about cooking either. Domingo has already taken care of all that, and we sit down at a laid table. Even our vegetarian is lovingly looked after and gets his food sin carne (without meat). In return we gladly part with the food we bought, for those coming after us. Man, were we shattered. The pilgrim guide says something about 29 kilometres. But Gabi said her GPS showed 33 kilometres. That’s how my feet felt, too. Without letting it show, I replied: “Well, you did stop to pullern often enough!” – a word for having a wee that she had never known before. From then on she used it all the time. “Well, we’ve learned something from the Saxons again,” she says. Everyone laughs, and with a glorious view of Grado we let the day wind down over a bottle of red and look forward to the next one.

Day 4: San Juan de Villapañada – Salas

Once again almost all the Spaniards have already gone. They surely know the area already and don’t mind feeling their way forward in the dark, I think.

We set off again at 8 and don’t have quite as far to go today. It’s only 21 kilometres from Villapañada to Salas. But right after you’re back on the Camino, things get serious for the first time. It’s the first somewhat longer climb (1.3 km), and at the top we’re quite glad that it’s still fairly cool. I’d guess 10–15 degrees – certainly no more than that.

Alongside the new motorway the way immediately goes steeply downhill again, and for the first time we wonder about the deserted road. Hardly a vehicle comes out of the tunnel. We were to notice this several more times, and also that almost all work to finish it seemed to have stopped. Many sections only have two lanes, and some consist only of unfinished bridge piers.

The traffic on the parallel country roads doesn’t suggest that this motorway will ever be used enough in the future either. Could it be that EU money is being used here to build things nobody needs? A question we often asked ourselves on this route, and not only about road building.

San Marcelo in bloom

At the end of the descent we walk through the little village of San Marcelo, decorated all over with flowers. Beyond it a narrow path leads through a dark forest with a small, ruined watermill, where there was a pilgrim traffic jam because it made such a lovely photo.

Then you have to pay attention, because the route keeps changing due to the motorway construction. And it has already happened. At a large quarry we trudge along thoughtlessly chatting behind a few Spaniards, who after a kilometre are sent back by attentive locals. At the spot where we should have turned sharp left, there was only an arrow laid out of stones on the ground, which is easy to miss. Nobody had noticed the small yellow arrow on a road sign either. Well, luckily there are always the friendly and open-hearted Asturians to point you back onto the right path.

San Salvador monastery

The forest path leads steeply downhill. At the bottom a Labrador puppy greets us excitedly and slobbers all over us. Then the way runs alongside a kiwi plantation to Cornellana, where we say goodbye to Gabi right after the bridge over the Río Narcea. She wants to get as far as Bodenaya today. The way turns off to the left here before the village. We carry on into the village and find a few bars, one of which we choose for a stop.

Past the San Salvador monastery, the way leads along the river out of town.

Soon the path climbs again and you have a lovely view of Cornellana. The path winds through a forest, where what caught my eye above all were the beautiful mossy roots of the trees.

Climb beyond Cornellana

Suddenly my wife is lying in front of me on the forest path and, like a beetle lying on its backpack, can’t get up again on her own. She has got so tangled up in her walking poles that I have to help her to her feet. I almost ended up on the ground myself from laughing, it looked so funny. Unfortunately, in such decisive “falls” you never have the camera at hand straight away. Although I have to admit that I really do take a lot of photos and on this trip I even recorded a few video sequences. In the end there will be 2,300 photos and 2.5 hours of footage that I have to sort and go through. I want to edit the videos together with Jörg’s footage into a film. But that’s a job for the winter.

At a sand pit before Llamas and below the village of Quintana, at a beautiful fountain, we take another break before the “2 pm heat” strikes again.

Albergue in Salas

But by 3 pm we’re already in Salas and find the albergue on the ground floor of a new apartment block. The key is supposed to be in the bar around the corner. So Jörg goes over… “The door should be open!” says the nice barmaid, showing off her English. We should simply have given it a tug, and we’d have realised that we weren’t the first after all, as we had initially assumed. It would have surprised us anyway, at our snail’s pace.

The albergue is rather plain but clean and tidy (my God – typically German! I keep catching myself at it). There are two dormitories, one with a very small window and one with no window at all. For us only the one without a window was left. Oh well, it’ll be fine, and the Spaniards shut everything tight at night anyway. They must feel the cold very quickly or be used to warm, stuffy air. I’m certainly not, and that was to become apparent.

Then it’s back to the bar. The barmaid turns out to be a Formula 1 fan, and since the race in Monza is on TV right now (is there actually a bar in Spain without a TV running??) she shows off her expertise. Alonso is up at the front, so all is right with the world. After a few beers Philine turns up with an older gentleman. It’s Jürgen from Ulm, who is visibly pleased to get even more Saxon company. After a cheerful exchange about our dialects, we realise very quickly that we get along. And so we see each other again after almost every stage. Jürgen is much faster than us and almost always sleeps in guesthouses or hotels. Even so, you keep meeting each other on the Camino. That was our experience on the Francés too. It’s strange…

The bar around the corner offers a very good pilgrim menu. I order the lamb and am delighted with the generous portion and the way it’s prepared. But afterwards I’m weighed down by a guilty conscience and a full stomach. I actually wanted to leave a few of my superfluous kilos on the Primitivo. But if it carries on like this…? Then off through the twilit streets of Salas for a few photos and a “nightcap”.

The night was then to be less pleasant for me, and perhaps for some others in the albergue too. My fears about the air in the dormitories were quickly confirmed. I lay awake for over an hour, tossing from one side to the other and throwing off everything that was on top of me. I imagined how often this air might already have flowed through other lungs, or what percentage of it had escaped from other bodily orifices. I started to panic and couldn’t breathe. Then I left the room and considered spending the night on the bench outside with my sleeping mat, which luckily I had brought this time, and my sleeping bag. But outside it was just starting to drizzle. What now? In the entrance hall I pushed two pieces of an ageing seating set together, put my sleeping mat on top and then myself in my sleeping bag. Comfortable it was not. Beforehand I had wedged the front door with a row of hiking boots so that it no longer closed by itself. Fresh air at last! A fellow pilgrim, who had perhaps noticed my activities, had the same problems as me or simply needed the loo, came up to my makeshift bed, discovered my door-holding-open construction and gave me a thumbs up. Well done!

I dozed off, but kept waking up because the pieces of the seating set drifted apart. Then around 3 am a little kitten outside was looking for its mum, mewing loudly. You could hear it several streets away. It was heartbreaking. And then the mewing came closer and closer… “What are you going to do if the cat comes into the albergue? It’ll wake up the whole lot of them…” That was the end of the night. I more or less kept cat watch, but dozed off again at around 5, I reckon. The cat had just left when the first residents started up their wheels. I gave up, went to the bathroom and the toilet, and was ready to go without any jostling when the others got up.

The only good thing about it? – You never forget something like that.

Day 5: Salas – Tineo

We had seen Gabi for the last time yesterday. She had walked on to Bodenaya. If I had been able to foresee the night, perhaps I would have walked on too.

During the stiff climb just beyond Salas, though, I immediately dismissed those thoughts again. That would have been too much in the afternoon heat.

Today it’s once again only 20 kilometres. But as I’ve already written, you don’t make progress that quickly on the Primitivo.

Climb beyond Salas

So at first we walk steadily uphill through a kind of rainforest. Yes, it’s drizzling lightly this morning. Or maybe it’s just low-hanging clouds we’re walking through. Because in places it’s quite foggy, too.

Fog spider

But this fog enchants the plant world. Everywhere thick drops hang from the leaves and twigs. The spider webs in particular captivated me. And so it isn’t so annoying that we don’t get to see much of the valley we’re walking through, which is described as very beautiful.

We saved this calf’s life

Shortly before Bodenaya, an incident that completely convinced me it had been right to stay in Salas: from far away we hear a cow mooing loudly. And as we get closer, there at a wall about 1.5 metres high stands a little calf, whose mother is calling to it in agitation. The calf had fallen through the fence down onto the path and now couldn’t get back up. Attempts to drive the calf further along the path to a spot on the pasture where it could get back to its mother by itself failed, because it was already too weak or couldn’t really walk properly yet. The mother cow was beside herself when we came too close to her calf. But there was nothing for it: I took heart, summoned all my strength, grabbed the calf around all four legs and heaved it sideways onto the wall, between the fence wires and onto the meadow. Luckily it immediately stood up again and found its mother’s udder straight away. – A good feeling to have probably saved a life. Even if it was “only” a cow. As a thank-you, the calf sh… all over my shirt. And I got a scrape on my shin from its hooves. But if I had walked on by, the image of a dead calf would never have left my mind. So it was good to have walked this way today, even though it would certainly have been possible that another helper would have come along. After a short break in La Espina the weather improved noticeably, and we arrived in Tineo in brilliant sunshine without rain gear and with relatively dry and clean feet.

Sunken lane before Tineo

On the way there you walk through wonderful sunken lanes, which were nice and shady and cool when the heat set in, as always, from 2 pm. I wouldn’t like to know what these paths look like in rainy weather.

The albergue in Tineo is quickly found, since it’s almost at the entrance to the town. A fairly large hall with lots of bunk beds placed rather close together. But there were still some free by the window. Today I’m master of the window, so the problem of stuffy air was banished for the time being. Then came the usual daily routine: showering, washing and hanging up laundry, off into town, taking a few photos, having something to drink, something to eat, buying provisions for the next day and for dinner. Tonight that turned out rather spartan. There was just some cheese, ham and bread at the tables outside the albergue. The town itself looks better from above than when you wander through it. There’s a large new housing district and a small old town, followed by a long shopping street. That’s about it.

Tineo

In the albergue I really must get my backpack in order! That worked much better last year. Back then I knew exactly which compartment held which zip bag and where the scissors, the knife, the earplugs or the spare batteries for the camera were. When there are four of you, not everyone takes everything. You share various things. That saves weight, but you’re constantly trying to find out who has, say, the clothes pegs at the moment. – No, everyone had their own toothbrush!! Then off to bed, and unless I was snoring myself, it was a really good and restful night.

Day 6: Tineo – Campiello (11 September 2012)

– So good that I, the early riser, had overslept and Jörg had to wake me. Well, I did have some catching up to do.

I had actually planned for us to walk as far as Borres today, despite the somewhat tarnished reputation of that albergue. But we wanted to get as close as possible to the Hospitales route. That’s only 16 kilometres, so we took it easy.

Tineo in the fog

The climb beyond Tineo didn’t allow for fast walking anyway, because we kept having to stop to take in the fantastic sight of the town just peeking out of the clouds.

Views beyond Tineo

The rising sun created plays of colour on the banks of fog below us and on the mountain ranges on the horizon. It was a joy to walk here, and today the paths didn’t seem that steep to us at all.

We were in good spirits and physically doing well (apart from Andrea, who had a bit of back pain), so it wouldn’t be a problem if we stopped already in Campiello at Herminia’s and accepted the 3 extra kilometres the next day. We were determined to take the Hospitales route and already had a certain respect for it, especially since the weather wasn’t exactly stable and quite a few horror stories were being told about this route. Unfortunately, Wetter.com was right with its 16-day forecast. And on this very stage, the worst weather of the week was to be waiting for us.

Casa Herminia

The business-minded Herminia practically pounced on us. Raimund had already prepared us for that in his book. So at first we approached her with scepticism. But once we had looked at the dormitory and the bathroom facilities, our decision was made. By the way, Herminia didn’t try to badmouth Borres to us. But we learned later that there was no hot water there. We paid €23 per person for the bed, dinner and breakfast, which seemed very reasonable to us, especially after dinner. Herminia personally took care of our vegetarian, and all in all, for all her business sense, she made a very nice impression on me. We shared the large-capacity washing machine, so that was a cheap business too.

Herminia with Jana and Andrea

At dinner we sat at the table with a very jolly Spanish couple our age and had a lot of fun talking with them, using every part of our bodies to help. Later there was another little bottle of red wine with Philine and Jürgen.

Casa Herminia albergue

On the way back we witnessed a game we didn’t know. At the edge of a field the size of two handball courts side by side, a row of wooden skittles stood behind an iron plate set in concrete at an upward angle. Nets were stretched behind the field (a meadow). Now a thrower with a fist-sized wooden ball came into play. Using a peculiar but skilful throwing technique, from a distance of about 10 metres he hurled this ball onto the steel plate, from which it bounced off and sent a varying number of skittles whirling through the air. At the back of the field stood another man, who rolled the balls back and tried to knock over the remaining skittles. There was a big board on which lots of numbers were then written. What it was all about, none of us could work out from the course of the game. And the Spanish fellow pilgrims looked rather baffled too.

But Jörg and the Spaniard who sat at our table gave it a try anyway. Now you could clearly see that it takes a lot of practice and skill, because both of them hit the steel plate, but not a single skittle. The only result was a sore shoulder and a few amused locals.

So if anyone knows what this game is called and what it’s about – I’m very curious.

Day 7: Campiello – Berducedo

Today, then, the queen stage. At least that’s how it seemed in our eyes.

Fog over Borres

As far as Borres and then up to the turn-off to Pola de Allande we make good progress on fairly comfortable paths, so the extra 3 kilometres hardly counted.

Heathland on the Hospitales route

From the turn-off it goes more or less steeply uphill all the time. At first, still in sunshine, we could admire the gloriously blooming heathland, but then beyond the little village of La Mortera, where we took another break at its chapel, it clouded over more and more.

At the first ruin it began to drizzle, visibility was practically zero and it got a bit windier. For us that was still no reason not to walk this route. It was just a pity that you could see so little of the mountains that the pilgrim guide describes so vividly. But what isn’t there just isn’t there. And you (luckily) can’t influence the weather yet.

Beyond the Alto de Santa Marta, where you meet the road, the fog at least broke up and you could see something below.

Zero visibility beyond the Alto de la Marta

Here we took another break and took off our ponchos for good for the day.

But it wasn’t until shortly before the mountain village of Montefurado, after we had mastered the breakneck descent on a gravel track, that the sun came out again – and then with all its might.

We were glad when we reached the strategically well-placed bar at the end of Lago. After coffee and beer (not together, of course) it was then just a stone’s throw to Berducedo. Here we only had a quick look into the albergue to realise that we can’t and won’t stay here.

Some people had already made themselves comfortable on their sleeping mats between the beds, and it smelled dreadful. A pity that the new private albergue still isn’t finished, although from the outside it actually looks finished. And so the lack of competition is also reflected in the price of the local guesthouse. The pilgrim beds of the Camín Antiguo albergue in the same building were already taken too. So we had to pay €30 per bed for the night here.

Well, at least breakfast was included and our laundry was washed and dried. That puts the price into perspective somewhat. And the lady of the house was very nice too.

View of Berducedo

Dinner here is provided by one of the two local eateries, the bar “Casa Gago”. And for the 7 euros they asked, it was quite satisfactory. Philine and Jürgen were with us again, and there was a nightcap in the form of three bottles of vino in the room. A little tipsy, we went to bed. What must the Swabians think of us…

Day 8: Berducedo – Grandas de Salime

This stage was to be one of the most beautiful, even if the elevation profile promised many drops of sweat and aching knees.

Long, steep asphalt road beyond La Mesa

As far as La Mesa it’s still quite leisurely. But then a long climb on an asphalt road lies in wait, which we weren’t particularly thrilled about either. Raimund also wrote that not every pilgrim can get excited about it. From the top, though, you have a glorious view of part of the previous day’s route, if the weather allows. For us it did. And so in the distance we also saw the awful gravel track that runs dead straight down from the Alto de Santa Marta.

Descent to the reservoir

After leaving the road to the left, we reach Buspol, a historic farmstead with a small chapel. From here you can already see the day’s destination, Grandas de Salime, and the reservoir below it – a glorious sight.

But these places you can already see are still far away, and so a track snakes steadily downhill in hairpin bends to the reservoir. You keep getting new, fantastic views of its emerald-green water, and again and again I took out the camera. But then it suddenly clouded over again. A dark wall of cloud promised nothing good. And already we had to make another involuntary stop to put on our ponchos or rain jackets. Luckily the shower was short-lived, so we were soon able to pack the rain gear away again.

With aching knees we reached the dam.

An urgent tip for anyone who also wants to walk this way: go slowly! Your knees will thank you for it on the rest of the way.

The dam

Franco surely had great plans here; at least that’s what the many ugly ruins on the opposite slope behind the dam, across the Navia river, suggest. From a viewing platform, reached by a short tunnel to the right of the road, you have an impressive view of the dam, its electrical installations and the valley of the Río Navia.

Our intermediate goal, however, is perched on a rock like an eagle’s eyrie above the reservoir – a restaurant. Still 1 kilometre after the dam, it spurs our tired bones on to one more peak performance. It’s funny what strength is suddenly released when you can already see the goal. And so sometimes I fibbed and made the remaining distance a bit shorter when I was asked. That’s psychology!

A huge, impressive dog greeted us on the outdoor terrace, from which you have a fantastic view of the reservoir. But he was very sleepy – it was already siesta time, after all.

We also met Jürgen here, who was already about to leave. “We’ll definitely meet up in Grandas!”

I didn’t have the slightest doubt about it.

View on the climb to Grandas de Salime

We had made ourselves comfortable on the sunny terrace for quite a long time, eating and drinking a fair amount. The subsequent climb to Grandas de Salime had almost been forgotten. We would have loved to stay here.

But onwards! The slave driver, as our friends like to call me on hikes through the mountains of Valais, urges everyone to set off.

The following stretch along the road is not entirely without danger. The trailers of articulated lorries in particular often came dangerously close to us on the bends. It’s better to switch sides of the road so you’re walking on the outside of the bends.

In some places you again have glorious views of the lake, and you’re amazed at how quickly you gain height again. Soon the inn is already far below us. Until the road turns inland. Shortly afterwards you shouldn’t miss the turn-off to the forest path. It’s very steep in the first part, but much more beautiful and less dangerous than the road.

Pilgrim albergue in Grandas de Salime

With a light step we make swift progress, and so Jörg and I didn’t notice at all that the women were falling behind us. But we waited at the entrance to Grandas and walked to the albergue together. It is in a beautiful, snow-white house and has two dormitories. Everything made a very orderly impression. The hospitalera’s little daughter was eagerly practising stamping credenciales. And so I have to think of her when I look at the stamps and one of them turned out a bit paler. We were very sure of getting a free bed here, since they also had an emergency shelter with 22 mattresses. But when I saw it while doing the laundry, I was glad not to have to sleep there. I wouldn’t wish on anyone even a single night in this cellar hole without a proper floor – better under the open sky. Upstairs, though, everything is spick and span.

Town hall of Grandas de Salime

We set off on a walk through the very interesting town. Here too, as in Portomarín, people were resettled in the Franco era because of the reservoir. And like Portomarín, the town strikes me as prosperous. They can afford an oversized town hall with a wrought-iron bell tower. The rows of houses look well kept, and the special feature of the architecture is the window reveals decorated with wood carvings.

Iglesia Parroquial de San Salvador

And sure enough, Philine and Jürgen were sitting outside a bar. A quick chat, a few beers and a walk through the town made the time until dinner fly by. Jürgen translated for us the information boards in front of the Iglesia Parroquial de San Salvador, an imposing 13th-century church in the centre of town. And – wonder of wonders – the church is even open, which had been quite rare on this route so far. Too much gets stolen, people claim.

After a small donation, the attendant had nothing more against a few photos inside the church either.

Dinner once again turned out far too lavish, even though the lady of the house and the kitchen seemed somewhat overwhelmed at first by our special vegetarian requests. But this is where it shows how useful it is to be able to rely on someone like Jürgen, who speaks pretty good Spanish. People suddenly become much friendlier and easier to deal with, and you understand many a joke that both sides might otherwise have completely misread. Even a small accident with a wine glass, whose contents spread over Jörg’s trousers, couldn’t dampen the cheerful mood. The food? Well, the Spaniards aren’t exactly gourmets. If you don’t like a vegetable-and-tuna mush overloaded with mayonnaise, you should give the Russian salad offered everywhere here a wide berth. But as a pilgrim you can put up with a lot, wine included. The local vino tinto de la casa didn’t even leave stains on Jörg’s trousers, never mind the taste. We’ve simply been spoiled by Rioja. In Asturias you’d be better off drinking white wine or sidra – they do that better.

It was already dark when we walk back to the albergue. And that’s why, on my next pilgrimage to Spain, I’d prefer spring again after all. You get more out of the day. In May it was already light at 7 am and didn’t get dark until around 9 pm.

Tomorrow we head into Galicia, and with the Alto del Acebo another demanding stretch awaits.

Day 9: Grandas de Salime – Fonsagrada/Padrón

A “fog bow”

The morning was cold, and for the first few kilometres we walked through a grey pea-souper. When we were finally able to leave the country road and the route carried on along a narrow path, it suddenly brightened up. We were out of the clouds, which were still hanging in the valley. And in front of us we saw a phenomenon I had never seen before. I called it a fog bow. Just like a rainbow, only without the colours, the white arc stretched out in front of us over the fields. It looked unreal, but I still managed to capture it on camera.

Hostel in Castro

Then we reached Castro. The local youth hostel is right at the entrance to the village, housed in a romantic granite building. The photos of the house in the fog, partly flooded with sunlight, turned out very mystical. At the far end of Castro, to the right of the path, there is a large excavation site. A medieval castle from the 8th century is being dug up here, the Castro de Chao Samartín. Unfortunately we didn’t have time to take a closer look. They only open at 11 a.m.

You carry on along forest and field tracks, past a small chapel, until you reach the AS-28. Along this road it climbs steadily all the way to Peñafuente.

Already here, at around 860 metres, you catch sight of the spectacle this morning has in store for us: a brilliant blue sky and sunlit mountain peaks rising like islands out of a sea of clouds. The sun bleaches the cloud soup snow-white, so the contours of the mountains stand out even more sharply. It really does look like a white sea with lots of little islands on which wind turbines are turning. The higher we climb, the more impressive the picture becomes. You can look down into the bays of the cloud soup and see right over a mountain that was towering up beside you only an hour before.

The border with Galicia

Just one more steep climb up to a ridge studded with wind turbines, and we have reached the “Alto del Acebo” pass and with it the border with Galicia. A plain stone relief and a line of stones across the path mark the spot. We look into Galicia and find that it doesn’t look any different there, the same sea of clouds with hilltops poking out. But far in the distance you can already see our destination, Fonsagrada. A lot of time would pass, though, and a lot of steps would still be needed before we got there.

Our steps first led us into the first house in Galicia. As was only to be expected, it was a bar. We drank coffee and Coke, ate the provisions we had brought along and a few morsels of white bread with fried meat that the landlord had put out for us, and discussed how to proceed.

The hostel in Fonsagrada / Padrón isn’t exactly big, so we were a bit worried about where we would sleep. On top of that, Andrea’s back still wasn’t any better. How could it be, with the constant strain and nothing for the pain but a few homeopathic lozenges that we had got, with Jürgen’s help, at a farmacia in Grandas de Salime. Andrea isn’t allowed to take most painkillers because she has to take blood thinners regularly. By process of elimination, only the “lozenges” were left. Well, maybe they’ll help by Christmas. And so, knowing full well that reserving beds in the public hostels is not tolerated, we decided to split up, with Jörg and me going on ahead to sort out a few beds. And if we only got two, that wouldn’t be so bad either. For cases like that, the two of us had each brought a sleeping mat. Then at least the women could sleep in the beds.

Partly along forest paths or wide gravel tracks beside the road, the rest of the stretch dragged on enormously. And there it was again, the dreaded 2 p.m. heat. The last climb before Fonsagrada was particularly bad for me, and my water had run out too. I had long since lost sight of Jörg. He also had our pilgrim passports with him. His legs are at least 1.5 times as long as mine, and so he’s much faster too. But he wasn’t supposed to wait for me either. That would have further reduced our chances of a bed. That the race for beds was now starting here on the Primitivo too left me deeply disappointed. And I can’t get out of my own skin, so I worry about where we’ll be able to stay tonight. We don’t stand a chance against the young Spaniards, and setting off at a run in the dark would be even worse for the soul.

Fonsagrada

Fonsagrada stacked up its ugliest houses beside me like a sort of wall unit as I finally had my destination in sight. No, what I saw of this town was truly no beauty. But please, let me find somewhere to sleep!

Padrón is part of Fonsagrada and lies about 1 kilometre beyond the town. It’s a small village, and the hostel is on its edge in an ancient house. The hospitalera greeted me warmly in the very rustic common room, picked up her book, and there I already saw our names. She just wanted to know which of the stragglers I was. Do I already look like a woman? I was seriously worried.

After I had put down my boots and poles, I climbed the creaking wooden stairs in my socks. Behind the first door, which I opened by means of a very medieval-looking latch, there was Jörg, already showered. Man, it worked! We even had a four-bed room. All the worrying had been for nothing. But better that way round than standing carefree in front of a full hostel, I thought.

1.5 hours later the women arrived too, bright red in the face. They were just as relieved to have got such nice accommodation.

Dinner in the Padrón hostel

Now we had one more problem: food. There was only a snack and drinks machine. I had already brought water and beer from the petrol station in Fonsagrada, at least as much as I could carry on top of myself and my rucksack. Jörg and I volunteered to walk back into town once more. Going backwards on a pilgrim route! – whoever heard of such a thing? Pilgrims are lazy walkers, I once read in a forum. And in a certain way that’s true. Anything that branches off to the right or left of the path is taboo – but now even going back? We had no other choice, and besides, we had reached our destination for the day, and there the rule isn’t so strict. In a supermercado we got everything we needed for that evening and the following day, including a big water canister. You can safely drink tap water anywhere in Spain, but it is very heavily chlorinated. And if you then lug that water around in your bottle all day, it doesn’t really taste good. As a stopgap, though, you can drink tap water along the way.

With the plastic bags and the canister in our hands, the way back to Padrón felt twice as long.

Andrea and Jana had recovered quite well in the meantime, and so we were able to enjoy dinner together with Philine and Jürgen.

Day 10: Fonsagrada/Padrón – Cádavo Baleira

Infected by the general restlessness, we got up fairly early too. There was a bit of a crush at the few washbasins and toilets, but otherwise everything went very quickly and in an orderly way. But since it was still very dark outside and foggy as well, we took our time over breakfast. I calmly made our instant coffee. It was no match for the usual café con leche in the bars, but it was quite drinkable. There were a few leftovers of bread and cheese from the night before, plus a few strips of dried apple and peach – that’s enough.

Only when it began to get light around 8 a.m. did we set off too. 23 kilometres to Cádavo Baleira, that doesn’t sound like much. But the constant up and down meant we hardly made any progress today either.

Out of the fog

At first the route ran more or less parallel to the LU-530 along tracks and forest paths. It was still quite foggy and cold. The clouds had got caught in the valleys again. But as we climbed higher, we soon saw the by now familiar picture again. The sunlit clouds wafted around the tops of the Galician hills, and we stood above them. After the village of Montouto there is one more stiff climb, and you cross the 1,000-metre mark once again. At 1,030 metres we reached the highest point of today’s stage. The view is phenomenal again. After that it goes steeply downhill again through a lovely forest. Just before we plunged back into the “cloud soup”, we reached the wonderfully cosy bar “Meson”.

Casa Meson

We decided to eat and drink something here, which was a very good decision. Because the bocadillos were huge, so I had to share one with Andrea. Neither of us would have managed a whole one.

Here we once again decided on the same tactic as the day before. There were still 13 kilometres to go and one more pass, the Alto de Fontaneira, ahead of us. Jörg was the fastest and was once again given our pilgrim passports. No harm in trying.

So we tramped off without rushing. I still had an eye for the surroundings and took the time for a few photos and video clips. The path at first ran a little above the LU-530 and was pretty wet from various streams crossing it. In rainy weather this section is probably barely passable. Then you cross the main road to the left and go quite steeply downhill for a good while to the village of Degolada.

That made me somewhat nervous, because I thought the way to the pass surely had to go up. And then it came, a long, steep climb right through a beautiful forest up to the village of A Lastra, where you meet the road again. The climb was so steep that I had to take several breaks. If I had stayed on the road, I would surely have spared myself this slog. So my advice: if you’re already a bit exhausted or already struggling, stay on the road here. In any case, you should stay on it in rain or storms. You could see on the path that the water uses it as a riverbed when it rains for a while, and in the forest I saw lots of fallen trees.

After A Lastra I therefore stayed on the road and climbed the Alto de Fontaneira on its left-hand side. The elevation profile shows me that this also saves you a few metres of ascent. If I had been in better shape that day, I would certainly have taken the forest path, but as it was, arriving was more important to me.

In Fontaneira I treated myself to a quick beer standing up and tackled the last section, which then leads almost constantly downhill to Cádavo Baleira.

Right at the entrance to the village, on the right, you could already see the hostel. And there was Jörg already coming towards me, and he didn’t look happy.

This time our plan hadn’t worked. There were only 5 beds left, and behind him stood 6 Spaniards, who of course caught on to what Jörg wanted and started talking at the hospitalero. Jörg played dumb at first and acted as if he didn’t understand. Then he politely thanked them for their patience and left.

We really can’t complain. The Spaniards were in the right, and we knew that you aren’t allowed to reserve in advance. Without any grudge we moved on to the nearby bar and got two double rooms there for 30 euros each.

Well, what more could you want? Everything will work out, Jörg always says. He’s much more laid-back than I am, and I should take a leaf out of his book.

We sat down in the bar, drank a beer and waited for Andrea and Jana, whom we had already phoned to tell them where we were. An hour later they were standing in the bar too, just as worn out but happy.

Then, while doing the laundry, another rather funny incident:

It had already been agreed on the Francés the year before that everyone washes their own stuff. And so I took my things and went to the laundry room. Well, it was a kind of barn with all sorts of junk in it. There was a bottle by the sink, and I thought, oh good, then I don’t have to use my own detergent, which was running out anyway. Cheerfully I ran water into the basin and poured in a generous splash of the stuff. Black sludge came out of my socks, as if I had been wearing them for half a year. Somewhat puzzled, I rinsed them out, only to dip them straight back into the suds. That black sludge again. “My God, what a filthy pig you are!” I was still thinking. Until the smell of chlorine hit my nose. The bottle contained chlorine bleach, and I had very nearly washed myself a pair of white socks. My dark checked shirt had also got a bit lighter. That’s how it goes when you haven’t got a clue. But Jörg fared exactly the same. By the way, he lost a pair of his nice Wollpower socks here. We turned all four rucksacks upside down. They are still missing to this day. And since we’re on the subject of socks: I can only recommend these Wollpower socks. You can get them at Globetrotter, they cost around €16 and are made mainly of merino wool and a synthetic fibre blend. There are no functional zones and no “R” and “L” on the socks either. They look completely unspectacular. BUT! I’m very prone to blisters and had never got through any of my previous walks without them. Back then I wore Falke TK2 Coolmax – not a bad sock either, and one I bought and wore often. But only with the Wollpower socks did I stay completely blister-free right to the end of the route this year, and for me that was a whole new feeling when walking. I even ended up doing without my beloved deer tallow.

A special challenge for the combination of feet, socks and shoes was still to come, though, after Santiago on the Camino Finisterre. But more on that later.

After the laundry debacle we went into the village. It’s unspectacular, and the only thing that interested us was a small supermercado. A bit of fruit, something for the evening and for the long walk to Lugo the next day – we got all of that here. On the way there we of course ran into Philine and Jürgen again, and we arranged to meet them for the pilgrim menu at our guesthouse.

The pilgrim menu was excellent again. I had a kind of roast pork that was wonderfully tender, but I couldn’t quite finish it. The grilled salmon looked very good too. The menu was à la carte, and Jürgen once again helped us a lot with choosing. (My mouth is watering again!) The vino tinto de la casa was a bit better this time too. But we had already stocked up on something better at the shop, which we polished off in the evening next to the bar. Suddenly the lady of the house came outside. I was expecting a telling-off because we were drinking our own wine at her tables. But she was only worried because the outside lighting wasn’t working and we were sitting in the dark.

Just imagine something like that in Germany…

Day 11: Cádavo Baleira – Lugo

Today, a stage that promises to be a little flatter. In return there’s asphalt every now and then, but that doesn’t bother me much, because it gives you the chance to walk a bit more relaxed and take in the scenery as you go, since you don’t constantly have to watch the path and your feet

Sunrise beyond Cádavo Baleira

The guesthouse still serves breakfast. And after we had put away the obligatory café con leche grande or solo together with a croissant, we set off. It was still quite dark, and the lights of Cádavo Baleira remained visible for a long time. An orange stripe formed on the horizon, growing wider and wider and soon lighting up the landscape. That promised another lovely sunny day. Beyond Cádavo the terrain rose a little once more, so we hardly felt the morning chill. We walked ourselves warm.

Then the route went quite comfortably and gently downhill through an extensive wooded area. Just before Vilabade we took a look at a fairly large church that stands in a small wood, with lots of tables and benches in front of it among the trees. Given the size of the grounds, it must be very significant. Above the entrance there are three interesting coats of arms, and a large wooden cross had been leaned against the side door. It all looked very interesting and piqued our curiosity. Unfortunately, like most churches around here, this one was locked too. Not so in Vilabade: to our surprise this church, rather oversized for such a small village, was open, and a friendly woman welcomed us and handed out stamps for our pilgrim passports, which we gladly accepted. After all, compared to the previous year, there was plenty of room for stamps. On the Camino Francés we had to extend our credencial in Astorga by buying a new one, cutting off the first page and sticking the rest onto our full one with plaster tape.

The pilgrim office in Santiago had no problem with that, by the way. In this connection Jörg told us a funny story from his first Camino in 2010: a woman from Germany, who apparently regarded her credencial as particularly at risk, was afraid it would get wet and had it laminated at home. It did stay nice and clean and dry, but no stamp had much chance of survival.

But now back to the route:

Church in Vilabade

We looked around the lavishly furnished interior of the church, left a small donation and walked on.

Suddenly unfamiliar sounds reached our ears. We came to the white iron fence of a well-kept property and tried to locate the source of the singing, which was now clearly audible. The music was coming from a tree. The owner had hidden a loudspeaker in it and was broadcasting a morning service. We stood and listened for a while, but then walked on somewhat bemused. What could it all mean? The relatively large churches, the big grounds far outside the village, and now the public broadcast of a Mass from an apple tree – we must be in a very devout area. Besides, it was Sunday.

In Castroverde the new hostel caught our eye straight away at the entrance to the village. Everyone had already flown the nest here, and they were busy cleaning up.

In the village we didn’t follow the yellow arrows any further but kept to the main street into the centre, looking for an open bar. We found one near the church square, and it was already bustling. While at this time of day the bars on the Francés are besieged almost exclusively by pilgrims, on the Primitivo it was more the locals who were already spending their time here in the morning, reading the newspaper or loudly discussing what was in it. To me it always sounded as if people were arguing whenever more than two Spaniards were talking to each other. Everyone talks at the same time, at enormous volume and at breakneck speed, and everyone seems to understand everyone else. Without knowing what it was about, I often listened in amazement.

Path beyond Castroverde

Aha, now it’s getting busy. We are approaching the 100-kilometre mark, and already the first “bus pilgrims” are appearing. A large coach stopped right on the church square and spat out about 40 pilgrims adorned with scallop shells and walking staffs. Their tiny luggage told us, though, that they didn’t have far to go. They lined up for a devotion in front of the town hall on the church square, and we greeted them in a friendly way as we strode briskly past the crowd. We wanted to get a little head start so as not to have to walk with the noisy mass. We knew that from the Francés, where there were lots of groups like this. But we didn’t stand a chance. After only a short while the first ones caught up with us. And to this day I’m still not sure what this “race” was about. Probably everyone in the group wanted to be first in Lugo. I can’t explain the pace any other way. The whole thing did look a bit grotesque. I still tried to remain tolerant, also because I didn’t know the motives behind the undertaking. But the peace we had learned to appreciate so much on the Primitivo was gone. So we had no choice but to take a longer break and wait until the spectacle was over.

Romantic ruin

We did this before Moreira, on a strikingly blue-painted bench by a small bridge that suddenly appeared by the wayside. We ate almost all of our provisions, and I was even able to get rid of the dried fruit I had been lugging around as an emergency reserve since Oviedo. A little less weight on my back again…

The line of “bus pilgrims” stretched out. Stragglers kept coming, left far behind with no prospect of victory. We had never said “Buen Camino” so often on the whole route so far – that was my impression, though of course it’s a bit exaggerated.

Then we walked on too, because we did want to arrive in Lugo at some point, and the weather once again promised a rapid rise in temperature at 2 p.m.

The rest of the way passed without any major “disturbances”. We allowed ourselves one more short rest at a drinks machine in a village whose name I can no longer work out, because the GPS in my camera didn’t save any data with the photo here. What was striking here, though, was that there had apparently been a glut of courgettes or pumpkins. Whether courgettes or pumpkins, I couldn’t tell exactly. The shape was more like a courgette, but the size suggested pumpkins. In any case, these giant things were lying around everywhere for people to take, even on the stone marker with the scallop shell.

Suddenly unfamiliar sounds again: from afar you could hear the thumping of a bass, then an electric guitar, then drums and a keyboard. A band was warming up for a village fiesta. A large open-air stage and a marquee stood a little off the path on a big square. Salsa rhythms drifted through the undergrowth – it all sounded very professional and made you want to listen. But as I already wrote? – A pilgrim is a lazy walker. And so we left the scene to our right and walked on. From every corner of the sprawling, scattered settlement the “village beauties” came towards us. They had dolled themselves up enormously, and some of them gave off a scent that took your breath away.

Gravel track before Lugo

Shortly before Lugo, when it had got very warm again, we had to take an enforced break. Jana was at the end of her strength and was dragging herself along behind us with small steps. We tried to coax her with the tongues of angels and give her new courage and new strength. The slower she walks, the longer she is exposed to the heat. Shortly before the motorway you leave the shady forest and are exposed to the sun without protection on a glaringly bright gravel track. That really takes it out of you, and after these more than 32 kilometres we were glad to have got Jana safely to the hostel as well. It turned out to still have enough room, and it was very modern and spaciously furnished. Meaning the beds weren’t so close together that you had to fear getting your neighbour’s arm in your face during the night.

The only thing is that the number of showers and toilets is very limited in relation to the beds, so there were waiting times every now and then, which is very unpleasant when you already have to press your thighs together and your eyes are bulging a bit.… (I won’t elaborate on that image any further.)

Lugo town hall

After settling in, we headed into the city, which I had been looking forward to. The strain of the last few metres before Lugo was forgotten, and even Jana joined us after an hour’s rest and a little nap. But she had decided to take a rest day tomorrow and do a stage by bus. Somehow it must also have leaked out that it would be another 30 kilometres to Ponte Ferreira.

And something clicked in her brain that told her she couldn’t manage it and that these weren’t “her” distances. Oh well, the main thing is that she recovers properly.

Historic city wall in Lugo

Lugo is the oldest city in Galicia. Its founding goes back to the Romans in the time of Emperor Augustus. The city lies on the River Miño and has around 98,000 inhabitants. The old town centre is completely surrounded by a two-kilometre-long Roman wall from the 3rd century that you can walk along. The wall is between eight and twelve metres thick and about twelve metres high at its highest point. Every 100 to 200 m there is a mighty semicircular bastion, which makes the wall look even more impressive. This city wall, which originally had only 5 gates (today, because of traffic, there are 10), has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 2000.

Lugo Cathedral

So off we went into the city, and before looking at the sights we searched for a suitable outdoor terrace to have a beer or a coffee. With such an oversupply, it’s not that easy to agree. Then some wandering through the alleys and a visit to the cathedral, which gleamed in the sun under a steel-blue sky with a few fluffy clouds. In general, the big churches here are in an enviable state on the outside compared to many German ones – meaning they look as if they had just been consecrated.

And of course walking a stretch on the imposing Roman city wall is part of any Lugo visitor’s programme.

Food mile on the Plaza Mayor

In the evening, the same little game. Together with Jürgen and Philine we looked for a restaurant where you could eat well. Jürgen had very precise ideas and asked his way around with his good Spanish. At last we had found the recommended establishment and stood in front of closed doors. Well, at least that way we got to know another part of town. Without further ado I now headed for the Plaza Mayor. This is where you’ll find the biggest choice, though certainly not the cheapest. Think again – the food was well worth the money. But we had no time left to be choosy either. As everyone knows, the public hostels close at 10 p.m. That’s not a problem in rural areas, but in big cities it’s more than a hindrance and, in my opinion, out of touch with real life. In a country where life only really gets going at dusk, where you still see toddlers playing on the square at night while their parents and grandparents stroll across the plaza, you don’t want to go to bed! The only thing you can do to get around these antiquated rules is to take private accommodation, but especially in the big cities that often turns out to be difficult, because everything is booked up and of course the prices are higher.

Lugo by night

So we were back in front of the hostel on time and said goodbye to Jürgen, who once again preferred to spend the night in a hotel, which, according to him, didn’t come close to the hygiene and facilities of the Lugo hostel. We arranged to meet for breakfast in front of the hostel. “I’m not eating anything in that dump,” he said in his finest Swabian, and we laughed before disappearing into the hostel. There’ll surely be an open bar somewhere tomorrow morning.

When I was ready for bed, Jörg fetched me out onto the terrace once more. A colourful, mixed bunch had gathered there, and everyone had a plastic cup in their hand. One of the Spaniards was generously handing out samples from a bottle of coffee liqueur. There was cake too. It turned into a fun evening. Evenings like this are one of the main reasons why I prefer hostels. You don’t get that kind of thing in a guesthouse.

Day 12: Lugo – Ponte Ferreira

Whichever way you look at it, on the southern route from Lugo to Melide you’ll have a thirty-kilometre day either way. Either you spend the night in San Roman and only walk 20 kilometres today, or you walk the thirty to Ponte Ferreira. Since I had already heard many good things about the new private hostel in Ponte Ferreira, and we didn’t want to put Jana through the 30 kilometres from San Roman to Melide the day after tomorrow, we decided today to walk to Ponte Ferreira, just as my stage plan had intended. Most of the pilgrims who stayed in Lugo chose the southern variant, by the way, as the waymarks on the northern route towards the Camino del Norte are said to have been systematically removed. Nobody could confirm that to me. Such actions on alternative routes are usually economically motivated. You don’t want to accuse anyone of anything, but on a route as little walked as the Camino Primitivo, it is surely difficult at times to break even. The public hostels are a loss-making business for the municipalities anyway. So you can well imagine that some not entirely above-board action gets started to keep your business going. On the southern route there are new private hostels in San Roman and in Ponte Ferreira, and in Merlán / As Seixas a big new property right on the path where a lot of work is still going on and which already has a bar. Perhaps beds will be offered here in future too. The competition is slowly getting too big for the relatively few pilgrims.

But back to the route:

Setting off from Lugo for the next stage

We walked through Lugo while it was still dark and left the city over one of the bridges across the Río Miño. As we climbed out of the river valley, the sun rose blood-red behind us. Then we passed through the rural outskirts of Lugo, which I’ll call the “commuter belt” here. Because anyone with enough money who doesn’t want to live in the busy, hectic city has treated themselves to a home here. And what little palaces there are!

Natural armchairs in a bar in Burgo

In Burgo, about 200 metres to the right of the path, we then found a bar where we could fortify ourselves.

The furniture on the terrace was remarkable. The chairs had been sawn out of whole tree trunks and were so old that moss had already grown on them and ivy was climbing up them – fit to be a prop in a “Lord of the Rings” film. After that the route continued almost entirely on narrow, quiet asphalt roads. In San Roman you should fortify yourself once more at the bar by the path before tackling the last climb of the day.

After it, the route goes steeply and then gently downhill until you reach Ferreira. Here you are suddenly directed to the left and make a detour of about one kilometre to see the most famous structure in Ponte Ferreira, the Ponte Romanum, a completely unspectacular bridge from Roman times that I wouldn’t even have noticed if it weren’t in the pilgrim guide.

So if you’re already a bit exhausted, you can just stay on the road here, which you rejoin anyway once you’ve finished the little detour. The local guesthouse is also on this detour, and according to Jürgen it made a very good impression on him.

Ponte Ferreira, historic Roman bridge

But we were also very pleased at the sight of the brand-new hostel “O Carballal” and the friendly welcome from the young couple running it. In an old farmhouse they have created something where you feel at home straight away. The necessary functional elements have been skilfully integrated into the rustic structure of the house. Huge gnarled beams stick out of the ceilings, for example, and some natural stone walls have been left unplastered as eye-catchers. On top of that, everything is lovingly furnished and decorated. In the dining room, which was surely the granary in the past, old farming tools hang on the unplastered walls. Above it all towers a roof truss that was built with great craftsmanship from unworked, naturally grown tree trunks. It would have been a shame if it had disappeared behind a boring suspended ceiling.

New private hostel in Ponte Ferreira

Outside, besides a restored hórreo, there is also an old farm cart on the neatly concreted yard. You can cool your battered feet in ice-cold water in an artificial stepped stream running along the outer wall, which people made good use of.

Dinner together

In the evening a pilgrim menu was served, after a Spanish pilgrim had played a bit of guitar music. The hospitalero simply asked the room whether anyone could play the guitar. And as soon as a young Spaniard put his hand up, he fetched one from the house. The food was excellent too, and after this successful, well-rounded end to the day everyone went to bed in high spirits. Many were surely preoccupied with the thought that from tomorrow on such an atmosphere would not be so easy to recreate. Because tomorrow in Melide we meet the Camino Francés and with it the crowds of pilgrims heading for Santiago.

But it wasn’t going to be quite as bad as we feared.

Day 13: Ponte Ferreira – Melide

Getting up and getting ready for the day went pretty smoothly this time, because we had all agreed that whoever got out of bed first would switch on the light. In my eyes it's nonsense to fumble about with your headlamp, scraping your stuff together, when everyone else has long been lying awake in bed, amused to watch you stub your big toe for the second time. So far I've always met with approval when I finally jumped out of bed and flicked the light switch. Let's be honest, almost everyone is awake anyway, and those who aren't are disturbed less by the light than by the endless fumbling around with torches and headlamps.

Not today, then! The fact that there were enough toilets on both floors also visibly eased the situation.

The last stage before the Camino Francés

I also thought it was great how thoughtful the owners were. We had accidentally left our telescopic poles at the front in the kitchen and bar area, which is locked in the morning. But they had kindly put our poles outside for us.

Breakfast came only from the vending machine and consisted of a packet of biscuits and a coffee. Sadly, you'll also look in vain for a kitchen to make your own coffee – just a small criticism in passing.

Tired dog by the wayside

The first section to Merlán / As Seixas was once again a small tarmac road where cars came only very rarely. At the new bar on the left that I already mentioned, they were cleaning up, and we assumed they were closing for a while after the first rush of pilgrims – which was a mistake on our part, because, as we learned later, they were just opening. That would have been a good opportunity for a proper breakfast.

But Jörg and I walked past because we misread the opening hours scrawled on a board. The path climbs steeply up onto a ridge with rock formations that you can make out from far away as a landmark. Almost at the top we noticed that Andrea and Jana weren't following. Well, it was pretty steep, and maybe we really had been too fast. We passed the waiting time by raiding the blackberry hedges. After more than half an hour they turned up, as happy as larks. They had read the opening hours correctly.

That's the advantage of being able to read properly. So our breakfast today consisted of nothing but biscuits and blackberries.

Ridge beyond As Seixas

The path along the crest of the ridge with its rock formations was lined with flowering gorse and heather. You could also see traces of a fire. The remains of larger bushes and trees stood charred amid the blooming surroundings. It was a somewhat bizarre sight. After coming down from this hill, though, and passing a small village, the path went straight back up again. Along a huge new plantation of conifers we walked up to a ridge studded with wind turbines.

In the distance – Melide

From here it's almost all downhill to Melide. Even from far away you could see the town in the sunshine – a town I could barely remember from my Camino Francés the year before. All I remembered was that from here it was only 50 kilometres to Santiago. Apparently, even back then, I was already fixed only on arriving. Or was it because, with a stomach bug, I couldn't think of anything else?

Never mind – this time I have more time to look at the town.

Picnic before Melide

At some point we finally got off the now somewhat tiresome tarmac road and strolled through a few villages. At a fork I spread out my sleeping mat, and we did find something edible in our rucksacks after all. The way to Melide wasn't long anymore, we were well on time, and we were sure that with so many beds available we would each get one.

The way to the albergue was quickly found. Before that I photographed the last waymarker stone of the Camino Primitivo.

We stayed in the private albergue “O Apalpador”, right next to the big public albergue in Melide. At €12 this albergue was definitely overpriced. Whoever came up with the idea of putting a steel staircase into an albergue should be punished by having to sleep next to it for the rest of their life. The thing made a hellish racket if you so much as came near it. It wasn't particularly clean either. Well, at least there were disposable sheets.

Our verdict after a short look around town: we hadn't missed much the year before. I did remember a few streets. And there it was, what I had feared beforehand: you start comparing. That puts me off walking the Francés again a little.

Maybe later, when I'm completely senile…

It tastes better than it looks – pulpo

Of course we ran into Jürgen in town and later Philine, and after a long chat in a bar on what is probably the busiest roundabout in town, we arranged to go and eat pulpo. I wasn't entirely comfortable with that. I had already seen the things lying in shop windows in Santiago, and they did look a bit disgusting. But I had firmly made up my mind to try it this time. “It's part of it!” said Jürgen. And: “Here you still get it at normal prices.”

The most iconic place to eat pulpo is probably the down-to-earth Pulpería Ezequiel on Avenida de Lugo. Alongside caldo galego, the Galician vegetable soup, the main dish is pulpo a feira with white bread and white wine. The octopus is cooked in hot water, taken out at just the right moment (otherwise it turns to rubber), cut into pieces with scissors, drizzled with olive oil, sprinkled with a paprika seasoning and served on a round wooden board with skewers.

So much for the theory…

In practice, because of the very strong fishy smell, I wanted to leave the huge room straight away. But Jürgen had gone to so much trouble over this pulpo that curiosity won in the end. Man, they must be expecting whole football teams here, there are so many tables. At first only one row is loosely occupied, and I'm already looking at the horrifying sight of chopped-up tentacles on the next table. “Let's order two portions first, and everyone can try and see whether they like it.”

Jürgen's suggestion was a good one at first – except that the portions we ordered were, by mistake, actually meant for two people each.

Not everyone's cup of tea

Forget what it is, close your eyes and in it goes!

Well? “Doesn't taste bad at all,” I replied to Jürgen's question. And it's true, with the seasoning it was really good, and even Andrea, who's not into that kind of thing at all, tucked in.

But I can't really say I need it more often. Well, tastes differ.

When the pulpo is still hot, it tastes really good. It's just that there was too much of it, so the pieces cooled down quickly, and then the stuff kept growing in my mouth and my throat slowly tightened. In short, I started to feel a bit sick, maybe because of the returning awareness of what this had once been in its original state. And just then a huge pot full of these creatures in their original state was carried past me. I shouldn't have looked in, because from then on I couldn't get another bite down.

So here's my advice: order small portions so you can eat the pulpo hot – then you can almost call it a delicacy – and, very important: Don't look in the pot!

Day 14: Melide – Salceda

All our fears about the steel staircase were confirmed early in the morning.

The first “night pilgrims” were already clattering down it before 5 a.m., and sleep was out of the question. So I carefully rolled out of the very wobbly bed so as not to wake Andrea. Off to the toilet – well, at least each floor had its own. Light on – NOTHING! Great, now there's not even any light – well, maybe after 6. But even then everything stayed dark.

Later Jörg solved the mystery. Our roommates, who wanted to sleep before 10 p.m., had searched in vain for the light switch, because my clothes were hanging over it on the bed. So they had switched off the main switch in the fuse box. You can search for a long time for that.

Our fellow pilgrims were a bit strange, though, since in the morning they must have noticed us trying in vain to shed some light on the darkness. But nobody stirred.

By the time we clattered down the stairs ourselves, it was 7:15 and still pitch dark outside. So into the nearest bar for breakfast, diagonally opposite the albergue.

The day before, from a conversation we accidentally overheard, we had learned a new Franconian word from a pilgrim from Upper Franconia: Pilgerrabatt – pilgrim discount (you have to pronounce it the Franconian way, rolling the “r” a little, it sounds twice as nice). So we made use of it for breakfast, and for €3.20 we got toast, coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice with … Pilgerrabatt.

11th stage, 50 kilometres to go to Santiago

Then we finally set off, still in the dark. Only a good way beyond Melide did it begin to get light. So the photos of the lovely bridge made of large stones turned out rather dark. In front of me, a somewhat older, rather overweight Finnish woman was struggling over the stones with tiny steps. We had already noticed her the day before, because she apparently had massive problems with her feet and was walking rather “unevenly”. Man, what a strong will she must have, wanting to see this undertaking through to the end. And I remembered the year before, when I too crossed this bridge with tiny steps and Andrea took one of the few photos of that day. I had other problems that day than taking photos. And I took those tiny steps not because of my feet but because of a stomach bug. No, I wasn't in a laughing mood.

Quite different on this year's Camino: we had the hard stages behind us, and I didn't have a single blister on my feet. Jana had recovered a bit thanks to her rest day and was once again that cheerful soul who laughs even when it hurts. Andrea was still struggling with her back and bravely tried not to limp too obviously, and Jörg was coming down with a cold. So I seemed to be the only one who was completely fine, which really surprised me, given my almost non-existent preparation for this Camino. With my excess weight I'm pretty slow and puff like a steam engine on every little climb, but the time it takes until my pulse is back to normal keeps getting shorter.

Entering Arzúa

And so I puff my way towards Arzúa, another town I don't have the best memories of. The route into town isn't especially pretty, not even under yet another brilliant blue sky. We've been in Galicia for several days now and it still hasn't rained. – That must be climate change!

At a fruit shop on the main road we stocked up on fresh apples and peaches, which we devoured straight away on the bench out front. Quite a few pilgrims passed us, all of them people we had never seen before. That's where the difference from the Primitivo becomes really noticeable, although I had expected even more pilgrims. Things were pretty leisurely on the Francés, at times even lonely – strange.

Dangerous zebra crossing (I slipped here last year)

And then the spot that is the reason I don't have good memories of Arzúa: a treacherous zebra crossing. Last year I had covered 750 kilometres up to here without any major damage (apart from a few blisters), and then it came, the slippery, wet, white stripe, and brought me down. I landed very painfully on my left knee. That must have looked funny. But it could also have been the end, so close to the goal. After a temporary “ouch”, though, I carried on, with the happy ending you already know.

We were hoping for one today too, because our destination wasn't Pedrouzo, as originally planned, but the new little private albergue in Salceda. That way we got around the 30-kilometre threshold that was psychologically so difficult for Jana. Later we found out that in Pedrouzo there had been problems with accommodation because an albergue had temporarily closed. “Everything falls into place”, “There's a solution for every problem, and sometimes it comes by itself” – all sorts of sayings like that came to mind. I had heard them all on the Caminos before. But I still couldn't get out of my own skin and had already asked Jürgen in Melide to give the albergue in Salceda a call and reserve four beds for us. Which he did brilliantly with his Spanish. In the afternoon it would turn out how sensible that phone call had been. The year before we had got through almost entirely without booking ahead and had a bed everywhere in the first albergue we headed for. But this time I somehow felt responsible, because I had suggested the stage plan. I know that's nonsense. But that's just how I am.

Sunken lane beyond Arzúa

More and more eucalyptus forests lined the path. If you didn't know exactly what ecological damage these trees do to the local wildlife, you could enjoy their exoticism and the impressive size of the trees. The smell is interesting too, simply because it's different.

In Castañeda, after a short climb, another break at the albergue where we had stayed in 2011. Back then, in the bar downstairs, they had served me something light because of my stomach trouble – the first thing I kept down that day.

Then, further along, a moment of shock: an apparently deranged man came hurtling towards us at breakneck speed along a sunken lane in a huge harvester with a cutter bar on the front. Jörg and I were lucky, because we happened to be at a small passing place and could jump aside in time. Andrea and Jana were about 20 metres behind us and could only leap into a blackberry hedge. Horrified, we watched the machine go and saw that it had been a matter of centimetres – otherwise Andrea's foot would have been run over. What an idiot, we shouted after him. He was probably frustrated because he couldn't make progress with his machine on the narrow lane because of all the pilgrims. But is that a reason to risk people's lives? Behind him came a tractor, which drove considerately and slowly. Only about 100 metres further on – a freshly harvested maize field. So the inhibition threshold of the reckless “idiot” didn't seem to be very high, and I hope someone introduces him to a psychiatrist one day.

Pilgrim rest stop, made in South Tyrol

After that scare, a coffee: a little further on we found a farmhouse with a shelf on the side facing the path, holding water bottles, fruit and coffee pots as well as an honesty box. In the garden there were benches and a pavilion.

We simply couldn't turn down this invitation, so we filled the cups provided and sat down in the garden after the coins had rattled into the box. Andrea actually needed the toilet, but there was a “Privado” sign on the house and she didn't dare go in, even though the door was open. “People who set up a stand like this surely don't mind pilgrims in need,” I told her.

But I didn't need to reassure her any further, because a woman in her mid-forties came out of the house, saying she thought she had heard German voices. She asked where we were from and where we had started walking. The South Tyrolean woman then told us her gripping story: how she came to be here, what her motives were and what problems she had faced in making her dream come true. She had fallen in love with this Camino and wanted to live on it one day. After a long period of turmoil and a great deal of bureaucracy she got this large plot of land and the house, and she was in the process of cultivating the garden and starting an alpaca farm. Then her face darkened and she pointed to the changes along the Camino.

About 300 metres behind her property a new motorway was being built, a motorway nobody needs. But EU subsidies make it possible. As long as money keeps flowing from Brussels and Madrid, the construction mafia calls the shots and doesn't give a damn about the people who live here.

She sounded very bitter and saw her life's dream bursting. Constant blasting and construction noise, knowing that this motorway is actually superfluous – that wears you down. We had already noticed that the motorways we had crossed so far looked like a car-free Sunday and that the country roads were pretty empty too. We had never seen a traffic jam.

And so our understanding and our sympathy grew as we listened to this strong woman, who, despite all her worries, still looked after the pilgrims. Of course Andrea was allowed into the house…

Motorway construction site near Salceda

As we walked on, we crossed the huge motorway construction site. Well, at least the roadway here is being lowered about 20 metres, so the noise (if there is any) won't be so bad.

A little later we reached Salceda. The albergue is about a kilometre off the Camino.

Even from a distance you can tell this albergue is something special. Since there's also a guesthouse here, the owners have created very nice grounds with fountains, fish ponds, a bar and a large restaurant area under arched tent roofs.

Everything looks very well kept, and the pilgrims who stay in the 12 beds get this ambience for free. Here it paid off that we had booked, because a few young people who had arrived before us had to sleep on mattresses in a side room, which I didn't take a closer look at. There are two bathroom areas separated by gender, each with one toilet and one shower.

Here too you could sense a designer's hand. Instead of the usual tiles, the walls were covered in black natural stone and the shower cubicles were made of real glass. The light came across a large area from one of the walls, which was clad in frosted glass. All very, very nice, and you felt at home straight away.

Jörg and Hartmut from Greifswald

As we were sitting at the bar, a pilgrim with a bushy grey beard came towards us, calling out from afar: “Ah, I can hear German voices!” It was Hartmut from Greifswald, who had retired on 1 June, set off from Greifswald on exactly that day and was now here.

Incredible!!

We were terribly interested in his story. After the first 1,000 kilometres he had already lost 20 kilograms of his 115. He doesn't speak a word of French or Spanish and doesn't make any effort to, yet he has still made it all the way here. The long stretch in France was very lonely and expensive, because he hardly found any pilgrim hostels in France. He told us about his work with the youth hostel association before and after reunification, and about the persuasion it took with Puschelchen. Puschelchen is his wife, and she had to be “worked on” for quite a long time before she agreed to his plan.

We listened eagerly to his stories, and the time until dinner flew by.

But back to the albergue:

The owner tried to reinforce the easy, relaxed impression by never, up to that point, pressing for payment or asking to see our pilgrim passports. Every drink that was ordered, or the washing machine we used – he always said: “We'll do that later.” And this is where inexperience showed, because I certainly don't want to suggest it was intentional. The final bill was presented to us (there were five of us, including Jürgen) on a single receipt, and we had to work out how to split it up. Since we had paid for some drinks straight away at the bar, but they now showed up on the bill again, we raised a quiet protest, which was granted immediately without discussion, but somehow left a bad feeling.

Lovely private albergue in Salceda

So here's a tip from me: if you ever stop here – and I can still only recommend it – pay for your bed immediately on arrival and for your drinks right away at the bar, to avoid complications later. Even if the staff wave it off, it's worth insisting. Maybe the team there will change these somewhat peculiar business practices at some point.

Because in the end a feeling came up in each of us that needlessly diminished the positive overall impression, a feeling I had never had on the Camino before. The feeling of having been ripped off.

Even if I don't want to suggest it was intentional, the unpleasant feeling remains.

Day 15: Salceda – Monte do Gozo

Nevertheless, we had a quiet and restful night. In the morning there was breakfast for €3 with coffee, toast and juice.

We set off at sunrise. This time Jürgen stayed with us, so he walked a bit more slowly. We hadn't seen Philine since yesterday. She still has plenty of time for her Camino and had already stopped in Ribadiso, after Melide. But we had arranged to meet on the 21st at 7 p.m. in front of the west portal of the cathedral in Santiago. We'll surely run into each other in town before then, we all agreed.

Giant eucalyptus under a blue sky

Once again the brilliant blue Galician sky accompanied us along the way, so we could see villages and landscapes we had only known under a veil of rain. It makes the whole thing look completely different. The year before, on the Meseta, people had praised Galicia to us as beautiful. But what we mostly saw were muddy villages stinking of cow pats and dripping wet forests, meadows and paths.

What a difference today's weather makes to the overall impression!

Group photo outside Santiago

Before Santa Irene we let the sun shine on our bellies on the terrace of a bar, before passing Pedrouzo and tackling the last major climb before Santiago airport. A group photo with the self-timer next to the stone relief at the roundabout, and we had already reached Lavacolla, where Jürgen said goodbye to us with a few beers and coffees before disappearing into his hotel.

With beer in our bellies, the remaining kilometres to Monte do Gozo dragged on terribly. Jörg wanted a single room on the hill so he could finally get a good night's sleep. His cold was getting worse and worse and he was coughing badly at night. I doubted whether a single room would really help him sleep through.

Past the monument on the hill, still quietly rusting away, we went straight to the albergue, in front of which a dreadfully ugly dog with its tongue hanging out was sleeping off its siesta. Everything here seemed to be happening in slow motion today. The albergue was only a quarter full, and not many more pilgrims came later either.

Picnic on Monte do Gozo

After showering and doing the laundry (we did want to enter Santiago clean and smelling nice, and the historic washing place in Lavacolla didn't seem quite suitable for that after all), we met up with Jörg, who had also got a nice room in one of the barracks.

For the evening we had come up with something special. Next to the hotel complex, on a rise, stand two bronze pilgrims. That's where we wanted to have a picnic and watch the sunset over Santiago. So Jörg and I went back into the village to buy cheese, sausage, bread, wine and beer. We drank two of those on the spot, and then we set off for the monument. A pity that where the statues had stood the year before, there was only scaffolding this time. Oh well, the pilgrim statues had already been pretty battered, and one of them was missing half his pilgrim staff. A restoration was due.

Sunset behind Santiago

We sat down on the grass and spread out our food and drink. The sun played along too and conjured up a glorious sunset in the evening sky behind the silhouette of the city.

In the cafeteria of the hotel complex Jörg then bought us a round, because he had won almost €200 in the lottery, and we talked for a while with Hartmut from Greifswald before going to bed.

The remaining four beds in the room had now been taken too. Even so, the albergue seemed much emptier to me than the year before. We had stayed on Monte do Gozo then as well and had been surprised by the bad reputation that preceded this “pilgrim storage facility”, but we couldn't confirm it. As back then, we planned this year to have plenty of time in Santiago, especially given the much nicer weather.

Day 16: Monte do Gozo – Santiago de Compostela

Fat chance!!! – was my first thought when I stepped out of the albergue with my rucksack already on my back.

I couldn't believe my eyes, because it was pouring with rain. So everything off again and out with the rain jacket. Once again, no arrival in nice weather!

Outside stood two Korean women in their red emergency ponchos made of plastic sheeting, who didn't quite dare to set off. In English they asked me whether I was going to start walking now. “Yes,” I said, and trudged off. The two followed hard on my heels.

Then I arrived in front of Jörg's lodging, where he was already waiting for us. I stopped, and so did the two Korean women, looking at me somewhat bewildered. Quite calmly I took off my rucksack to swap the rain jacket for my poncho, because it was raining harder than I'd first realised. Still noticing questioning looks from the Korean women, I reassured them with the words “I waiting for my wife”. Their faces brightened, as far as you could tell in the darkness, because even at 8 a.m. it didn't seem to want to get properly light this morning.

Jana and Andrea emerged from the dark and we carried on, the Korean women always right behind me.

Whenever I stopped to wait for Jana and Andrea or to take photos, the Korean women stopped too. I wondered whether they had kept this up along the entire Camino? That must have been pretty stressful both for the person being followed and for themselves. They kept up this little game all the way to the cathedral and were never seen again.

So there we were – only an intermediate goal this year, but a significant and emotional one.

The last step over the zero stone

One more step over the zero stone, and the Camino Primitivo 2012 was history. The mental emptiness we had experienced at this point the year before didn't come this time. For that reason alone I was glad to be able to walk on to the sea.

Then we quickly hurried to the guesthouse, because the contract said “Please arrive by 9 a.m.” I had long been wondering how that's normally supposed to work. But I do understand the point. They want to fill the guesthouse during the pilgrims' main arrival time. And if someone isn't there by the time agreed in the contract, they can give the bed to someone else. But when we arrived at Roots & Boots, we saw that things weren't taken nearly as strictly as they sounded. Once again we had been thinking in a typically German way. I have to become much, much calmer!! But I've already written that.

View of the cathedral from the south-west

Then we wanted to go to the 9:30 Mass in the cathedral. The west portal was locked, so we went to the north portal, where a security guard wanted to turn us away. From his torrent of words I gathered that tourists wandering through the cathedral during Mass is not wanted. Aha, so they have changed something. The year before it had been very disruptive that tourist groups were led through the cathedral even during Mass. But do we look like tourists? All right, we had already taken our rucksacks to our lodging. We had booked two double rooms at “Roots & Boots” from home. But our outfits still set us clearly apart from the usual tourists who hadn't reached the city on foot. And so we made it clear to him that we wanted to go to Mass. He willingly let us through, and we went straight to find a seat in the nave of the cathedral.

It was very sparsely filled, quite different from the year before. As always, I didn't understand a word of what was being said up front, so I had the time and leisure to look at this cathedral at my ease. You discover so much when you take the time and aren't “pushed through” by tourist groups. For once I didn't have a camera to my eye and wasn't hunting for subjects. I simply let the space work on me, and a deep inner calm and contentment set in. Was this the calm I was looking for?

After Mass came the obligatory embrace of “St James” and the walk through the crypt.

That calm was gone the moment we left Mass. When you've spent 14 days almost entirely out in nature, this city really gets on your nerves. At least that's how it is for me, and not for the first time. Many people I talked to felt the same. And that's also why many see reaching the Atlantic as the real end of their pilgrimage. I'm curious about the impressions and thoughts that will take hold of me when I reach the cape.

In the Pilgrim Office

Two turns and we were already standing in the queue outside the Pilgrim Office. Fortunately the crowds were limited here. After only 15 minutes we proudly held our Compostela in our hands. And someone waiting in line captured the moment with my camera. Quickly got a cardboard tube to pack the document safely, and we were back outside.

So as not to have to wait for each other outside every souvenir shop, we decided to split up.

Actually we hadn't planned to buy anything anyway, since we still wanted to go on to Finisterre. But the temptation just to have a look inside is too great. So I went on through the lanes alone with Andrea. And there sat Hartmut with a group of young pilgrims, and he called us over to his table at a street café. A little conversation, an exchange of experiences, and we parted again. That's how it always goes. You only have deep conversations once you've known each other longer.

That's how we spent the morning until the pilgrims' Mass began. We had arranged to meet for it at the south portal of the cathedral. Together we went into the cathedral, which was packed this time, and could only find standing room. But at least it had a good view of what was happening. Of course Philine suddenly appeared next to us as if out of nowhere, and together we watched a nun practise with those present who knew or understood the words the hymn that was later to be sung during Mass with organ accompaniment. That seemed a bit odd to me, and I had to grin to myself, because until then I had only known that kind of thing from TV studio recordings with so-called “warm-up” hosts.

The Mass was also a bit more folksy than the one earlier in the morning. I should say that I have no experience or background at all in religious matters of this kind. For me it was all very new and interesting the year before. But by now I'm familiar with the standard rituals.

Pilgrims' Mass with the swinging of the Botafumeiro

But a pilgrims' Mass is something different. Although once again I didn't understand a word, the sermon, which culminated in listing the pilgrims or rather their nationalities and the starting points of the various routes, was very entertaining.

As the highlight, just like last year, the Botafumeiro was swung. Anyone who hadn't been moved by the scene up to now certainly was at this point. The nun sang in the most beautiful tones, and the organist went all out and pulled out all the stops on his instrument. Driven by the strength and skill of the brotherhood, the incense burner sweeps in great arcs through the transept of the church, which is soon completely filled with the scent of incense.

After the final chord, just like the year before, I was on the verge of applauding. But I just managed to hold back, as I don't know whether that's proper etiquette.

What a beautiful end to a pilgrimage! It reconciled me a little with this bustling city.

Impressed, we left the church, only to plunge back into the throng. Until our meeting with Jürgen and Philine at 7 p.m. at the west portal, we tried to pass the time with lunch and sightseeing. Santiago is expensive, and money slips through your fingers faster than on the Camino so far. So you really have to keep your pockets closed so as not to give in to all the temptations. Luckily the time flew by here, because there's so much to see.

But compared with the year before, I noticed a difference that's quite remarkable. On the Francés you get to know many more people, and as you wander through the city you keep having the great joy of meeting them again in Santiago. When you've walked the Primitivo, you rather have the feeling of belonging to a small family. Because you keep meeting the same few people, and the relationships become much deeper – if you want that, or if you're lucky enough to meet people you like and can communicate with reasonably well. When choosing the right Camino for yourself, you should decide whether you prefer solitude or would like to meet lots of interesting people. Both had their appeal for me. But taken as a whole – culturally, socially, spiritually and in terms of their landscape – the two routes can hardly be compared.

These and similar things are what you talk about with each other. And almost everyone who has walked both routes feels the same.

Tomorrow, then, new territory would begin for me again. From various photos I already had some images in my head of the paths beyond Santiago. But once again they were to differ enormously from reality.

Andrea and me in front of the cathedral

But before we went to the guesthouse, we met Philine and Jürgen in front of the west portal of the cathedral. Everyone was perfectly on time, even Jörg, whose strength isn't punctuality. Jana made it at the very last moment; she was the only one in Santiago for the first time and still had trouble finding her way around the city.

So as not to start the same search for a bar as in Lugo, I suggested going to one I knew. At Rúa Nova 36 there's Bar Galeon – certainly no gourmet temple, but they make excellent scampi. And I didn't want to miss those. Everyone agreed, and so, just like in the afternoon, I sat at the same table and watched what a difference it makes when you make the effort to order in the local language. The waiter who had served us at lunchtime, and whom I would have liked to ask whether he enjoys his job, was suddenly friendly, open and even quick when Jürgen once again shone with his Spanish. Quite a few glasses of beer and several bottles of wine went across the table and down our throats. The evening was over far too quickly. And now, sadly, we had to say goodbye to Jürgen. He had already been to Finisterre and wanted to stay in Santiago for a few more days.

Saying goodbye was at least as hard for him as it was for us.

The full article is available in the original on Gert Kleinsteuber's website, where you'll also find videos and more photos.

More reports by Andrea and Gert Kleinsteuber

Andrea and Gert Kleinsteuber have also written about their pilgrim routes in Germany:

• Via Regia / Ökumenischer Pilgerweg (2012)
• Ökumenischer Pilgerweg 2013 from Görlitz
• Pilgerweg Mecklenburgische Seenplatte

The route in Camino Ninja

You'll find the Camino Primitivo from Oviedo via Lugo and Melide to Santiago de Compostela, with stages, map and accommodation, in Camino Ninja.