Part 1.

The late diners below our hotel balcony quieted down before 11 pm. Dinner that night was unremarkable. It’s a cafe/bar after all. Its patrons were glued to the soccer game on the television. In one corner, the proprietor, who had an Irish accent, was entertaining guests with wine tasting. Wine, glass, and bottles slid in and out of the table. The proprietor was pushing his wine bar; it seemed to me. We both settled for tuna salad and a cider for myself.

Breakfast was at the bar. The usual stuff—coffee, bread, cured meats, yogurt. People were greeting each other and describing their planned route. We chat with the German women who met earlier coming into Baiona if they were prepared for the rain. Our experience with rain has been minor so far, with a sprinkle here and there. The prospect of heavy rain while on the longest route in our Camino was daunting. I was relieved that I bought a poncho- an ugly blue one, like ponchos go. Pat had her rain parka. But we were not sure how our rain gear will perform in a downpour.

Our guidebook describes a stretch of rough forest terrain until the outskirts of Vigo. As we explained our route to the Germans, they suggested an easier route that followed the coastal highway, N-550. We use the Camino Ninja app, one said. It’s reliable. Download it. It proved to be a blessing and good advice. The bar people were nice. Perhaps recognizing the long trek to Vigo, they packed a couple of sandwiches and oranges for the road. We were off to a good start; it seems.

We followed the Camino Ninja route. Something was quite convoluted in our guidebook with its description of this trail to Vigo. Going through the forest would be daunting. The rain would make it worse. The trade-off would be that the alternative Way was not well marked, unlike the more historical trail. We would also miss some interesting historical sites that lay along the route. The distance was our concern. Our pace has slowed down because of growing fatigue. The rain did not help any. If it was a harbinger of the difficulties ahead, just as we stepped out, a downpour slammed down on us a bare couple meters from our hotel and we hurried to take shelter underneath the restaurant outdoor kiosk that we would have seen from our hotel balcony. They predicted it to rain the whole week. The weather on the way to Santiago was going to be a problem.

The Baiona cove was beautiful and would make a wonderful painting. The looming dark rain clouds gave it an even more dramatic ambiance, creating a picture-perfect contrast between the sandy shore, the blue sea, and the dark clouds. No wonder the tourists love it here.

All we had to do was follow the paved walk along the cove, suggested the Camino Ninja. Quite a few pilgrims were already at it. A group of women of varying ages went by us and led a nun (the habit was a giveaway). They wore green t-shirts. I ask a couple where they were from. “Ireland!” one said. I hope you’re ready for the rain, nodding at the dark clouds. “We’re Irish!” She shouted back, matter-of-factly. I chuckled. We are now about half an hour away from Baiona city. The rain fell and poured. We took shelter under the leafy branches of a beach tree. The downpour was sudden but short. During the brief lull, we saw a picnic shed and what looked like restrooms alongside. We got under the shed’s roof when the rain poured again in torrents, with a bit of wind, splashing rain all around while we huddle as close as possible to the shed’s center. A couple was caught in the rain too. Locals on a walk, they said. We engaged in small talk. It doesn’t rain like this in San Francisco, hinting at where we come from. I could see their quizzical look. The man said, oh—this is just the start. It always rains like this at this time of the year. It was late August. We missed the dry season a few days too late.

I appreciated my poncho. It kept the water away from my head to mid-torso. But it made my body hot, and my back sweaty. As soon as the rain stops, I’d unsnap the buttons that held both front and back sheets to allow air to cool my back. When there’s a wind, this becomes unwieldy with the front sheet flopping about my face. This would not be a simple walk. To top it off, my boots, which have protected my feet from the treacherous cobblestone and rocks, were leaking water. Pat’s sneakers were not doing well, either. We are now slogging our way to Vigo.

The rain slacked off. We turn further inland away from the peninsula following N-550 highway. Up a slight promontory, there’s an ancient-looking chapel. We went up to the churchyard. It had a commanding view of the Baiona cove. Ermida de Santa Marta, the historical marker said: In 1585, the English pirate Sir Francis Drake attacked the church to capture a vantage point. The Galician defenders beat them back. The battle damaged the Romanesque chapel, but the municipality restored it and given the status of a historical site.

At Ramallosa, we left N-550, still following Camino Ninja. N-550 was like California’s Interstate 1. What would take us 21 days to walk to Santiago. It would only take three hours by bus on N-550. We follow a minor highway instead, the N-320. It follows the coastal towns and traffic is slower. Cyclists loved the route.

We were now walking a few hundred meters above sea level. Some villages are perched on the hills and gave a wonderful view of the coast. About 10 miles into the trail, with much relief, we reach a restaurant along the highway, Restaurante care. We needed a restroom. I ordered espresso and a chocolate croissant. Pat had her peach juice and a tart. The interim was a great relief. The cafe looked like a crossroads. Old customers greeted each with much conviviality. It was not new, but the window tables have a grand view of the coast below. I imagine they could have romantic dinners here at sunset. A quick check on Google Maps tells me we are in the municipality of Saina. We were headed towards beach resorts outside of Vigo. As we depart the cafe, a couple of pilgrims arrived. They had the same urgent look we had a few minutes ago. Before slinging it on, Pat dug into her backpack and pulled out a couple of oranges, and offered it to one of the women. They appreciated the gesture with big smiles.

The yellow arrows lead us through the town. At Nigran, we were directed to the left along a stretch of beach homes. We stopped at a newspaper stand and asked if the street would take us to the Camino. Yes, she said all the way down the beach. As we crossed the street, a sudden downpour caught us and we shelter at a bus stop. When the rain stopped, we went downhill toward the beach. We reach a pier of sorts. A painted arrow on a shed told us to go forward but forward meant passing along a fenced subdivision. While we pondered, a couple of women whisked by us stopped to take a quick look at the arrow sign and walked toward the subdivision. Emboldened, we followed suit. We’ve learned a bit about trekking the Way. Others will lead the way. Trust your instincts. It was a sandy path that took us to the edge of the beach. Oh, oh. The sand was wet, with tide pools here and there. With my trusted boots, I splashed around along the edge of the beach. Pat looked for more solid sand. Our trekking sticks plunged deep into the sand. At last, we reach a roadway leading away from the beach. The roadway led us uphill into a village. There were no yellow signs to guide. Technically, we were lost. Ahead of us, a mother and daughter have reached the same impasse. A man comes up the hill to offer help. The mother asks if the path leads to the Camino. Si, si. the man answers, but that is a hard path. It’s better if you take a detour on the next road and follow that. It’s longer but more comfortable. We take our cue from this and follow the mother-daughter. A few kilometers out, they took a turn toward an Albergue. We were on our own again. Sprinkles of rain here and there. We reach a park of some sort. I plunked down on a bench to get a drink and munch on trail nuts while surveying our situation. In front of me was a vacant taxi stand; on my left, was an enormous edifice that look like a sports stadium; on my right was a small chapel (Ermida Vierxe do Carme) that Pat went towards to investigate.

It was almost noon. Since Baiona, we have been walking for over three hours. We found ourselves in Playa Vigo in Väo. Our hotel is 5 miles away. Given our pace and more downpours, if we walk, we will reach Vigo just before nightfall. Our guidebook’s advice is to avoid the city in the dark. We took a cab. I place a call to our travel rep, Agosto, and explained the situation. As I was describing our location so Agosto could send for a cab, a taxi comes up from nowhere and we hailed it. Heaven sent? The driver was a nice elderly guy who swung out from a taxi stand somewhere instead of waiting for a fare. I thanked Agosto, and we piled into the cab, relieved from our anxieties. With much relief, we savored the taxi ride to the city. Not too far from the city center, we saw our companions trekking up the hills to the city. We felt a little guilty about that. I divert those thoughts as the cab drove through street names I am familiar with—Calle Cuba, Magallanes, Colon, etc. We paid €11.65 for the cab fare and gave a large tip. We told the driver he was Bueno mano (good luck). He didn’t know how really grateful we were.

Hotel Oca Ipanema has an odd name to be in a Spanish city. But for a 3-star, it more than suited our needs. We freshen up and look for lunch and pick up some ice. We also need a bit more cash to exchange. The concierge suggested we go downtown (a misnomer we found out it’s more downhill) to a money exchange shop.

The shop was closed. Siesta time. The shop was in the financial district. It’s a long pedestrian mall about a mile long. On both sides are theaters, banks, and high-end shops. At the top of the mall is a plaza with some interesting sculpture pieces. Everything was on a grand scale. Impressive.

We sat down for merienda to kill a couple of hours. A theater cafe nearby was convenient and looked kinda funky. I saw on the menu something I have been hankering for since we got to Portugal—churros, and chocolate! The genuine stuff. Thick chocolate and thumb-size thick churros. Pat watched in amusement as I slurped it up. Delicious!

It was 5 pm when the dollar exchange shop will open. When we got there, a few people were ahead of us. But when we got to the teller, all she could say was “Lo siento. I don’t have dollars. Try the Corte Ingles. Go to their Servicios department.” That was disappointing. As we leave, we gave a euro to an old lady beggar hovering about. Our first sighting of one since we arrive in Portugal.

El Corte Ingles, an audacious name for a department store chain, is the oldest, if not the largest, store chain in Spain. You’ll find everything there, including, of course, to our surprise, a dollar exchange service. The service had long lines, but we dispatched our business. It was dinnertime. There was a food court in the basement and we found warm sandwiches for dinner. The only task left to complete was to bring back a bag of ice for our feet. Corte Ingles had that too.