We wished we could follow the advice of the two Aussie women in Viana do Castelo and have just a day of no hiking. We were almost halfway to our destination and fatigue was really creeping in. Getting lost was not exciting anymore and was anxiety-causing. We had to catch a ferry to cross the river to Spain but went back and forth (again, our guidebook was not very helpful) looking for the ferry landing. It should have been just a short distance from our hotel. We eventually got into a cafe, sat down, and ordered espresso and snacks. It was a good excuse to ask for directions. The server was not very helpful, but a local resident stepped up and inquired where we wanted to go. The ferry, we said. That’s further out she said. And, unfortunately, it has not been running since a week ago! Wow! How did we not know that? Since we are on a self-guided tour, it apparently was not the responsibility of our tour rep to keep us updated. The lady added, however, there’s the river taxi wharf down the road. You can catch a ‘taximar’. We got down to the wharf and hailed the lady coming out of the building. Is this where the taxi is? Upon hearing us, she dashed out towards the water landing and sent out a cat call to a little boat maneuvering out of the harbor. Hurry she said, it’s the last trip. We got into the building and she issued us a couple of tickets. On our heels was the Aussie lady we met at Hotel Meira. She was in the same predicament as we were. Tickets on hand, the taximar operators helped us, board. Already seated were two young cyclists on a ride to Spain.

The ride across River Minha was short. In no time, we were on Spanish soil. We expected customs officials or anything of that sort, but apparently, this being the EU, the border is truly porous. We were lucky we got the last ride. Otherwise, it would have meant a mile hike to a bridge that would take us across Spain and another mile to get to the town of A Guarda where our lodgings were.
Getting to A Guarda required a short uphill hike before it levels off towards the town center. Again, our guidebook fails us and misdescribes how to find our hotel. The signage now was in Spanish, but it was not any less confusing than in Portuguese. By now, we have deduced that the guidebook was directing us as if we were on a vehicle on the main road. Since we are hiking, most of our entry into a town is through the back roads. Alas, hotel marquees do not display back-to-back. Such was the case for the Hotel A Guarda.

We were obviously a curiosity to the concierge. A Chinese- looking couple with Spanish surnames. We handed in our American passports and it added to the confusion. We are Filipino Americans who live in San Francisco! We surmised that not many of our kind travel this way. Our luggage arrived ahead, so we quickly settled down in our room. It was quite tiny and reminded me of the Pod I stayed in while in Manhattan. It was Euro-chic at least and had a nice veranda between rooms for letting fresh air and sunlight in. Immediately, we cornered a spot outside to dry some shirts. Other residents have similarly commandeered the sunny areas.

We needed lunch and a laundry service. The concierge pointed out self-service laundry across the road. Lucky for us, across it was a cafe. We could do laundry and have lunch. This was our first encounter with an Iberian self-service laundry. We interpreted the Spanish instructions on how to use it. To the best of our ability, we concluded it needed some soap. I rushed to the supermarket across the plaza for a large box of soap. Wrong! When I got back with the soap, Pat had already engaged a local resident who showed her how to start the machines. All it needed were coins – 5 euros to a wash. Soap was automatically dispensed. And it would run for 45 minutes in one whole cycle. Later, we discovered (after being more aware of the signs) that an English version of the instructions was on the dryer side of the room.
“Lesson 4: Always Scan the Room for English Instructions.”

We had 45 minutes to grab lunch next door.
The cafe tables were quite empty. Now and then, a local would order an espresso, drink, and then leave. The bartender was at least eager to offer us a ham (jambon serrano) sandwich and coaxed us to try his special draught Galician Sidra. (We were warned by most blog writers that Galicians are very proud regionalists.) At the far corner of the bar sat an old lady listening to our conversation. She pipes in and says it’s the best and orders another glass. It seems that she already had one too many and was quite talkative. She asked if we were Chinese. She saw a busload earlier and found them a curious lot, not buying much (why am I not surprised, most souvenirs are probably made in China). No, we said we are Filipino-Americans from San Francisco. With that, she became even more talkative about her life and all she does now was visit this bar to spend her afternoons. She asked how old we were, perhaps observing our grey hair. Not too old in the seventies, we said. I asked how old she was. Almost ninety, she said. The bartender added. She’s not missed a day at the bar. Thankfully, forty-five minutes were up. We weren’t sure where this conversation would go as she ordered another glass of wine. The dryer took only twenty minutes, and we elected to stay and watch it complete its cycle.

It was still a while before dinner, we decided to explore the town a bit. Our regret, in hindsight, with the program we embarked on, was that we would miss quite a few historical highlights in the places we visited. We accepted that. Being a tourist was not our primary motivation. The pleasure we can derive from that was a side benefit to our main intentions—the challenge of the pilgrimage. A Guarda was no exception. It was a fishing town with a church on the hill dedicated to mariners. The church was closed, so we could not get our passports stamped. We got it instead from the tourist office across the church plaza. I grabbed a brochure and gleaned a few more visitor highlights. Apparently, A Guardia was a prehistoric Celtic settlement. Archeologists have been able to reconstruct some prehistoric huts. We were still recovering from our long trek and decided to pass up exploring the port area. Besides, it was time to hunt for dinner. A couple of blocks from the laundry, we saw a cafeteria. We did not expect a comida served this early in the evening. But the server was kind enough to accommodate us. I asked in Castilian, do you have a menu peregrino?

Yes, with some hesitation, she said, to our relief. Do you have your credencial? She inquired. We hastily pulled out our pilgrim’s passports. We gorged on batata torta, grilled chicken breast, and an ice cream bar for dessert. We bought a couple of liters of water and two bags of ice at the Froiz supermarket next door to the hotel and bedded down early, hoping that the hotel would be quiet the rest of the night. Not quite. Sometime around midnight, we awaken by someone shouting “Quiet! Probably directed at late-night diners getting back to their rooms.
Breakfast in the dining room was odd. The guests, quite a few of them pilgrims as well, were made to follow a queue to serve themselves. The hotel concierge was on the floor directing the traffic and watching what people placed on their plates. We found that odd. So far, our breakfasts were buffet style, eat-all-you-can. It was apparent the concierge wanted to discourage guests from squirreling a piece of bread or fruit for the road. In previous hotels while on the Portugal side, I did see guests pocketing a fruit or pastry but the management didn’t seem to mind. Maybe this is just being Spain.