Caldas de Reis is 16km away from Pontevedra. It’s one of the long stretches of our Camino, Baiona to Vigo, being the longest. The taxi transfer to San Mauro, from where we rejoin the Camino trail, will give us some respite. From San Mauro, Caldas Reis is a mere 12 km. Today will be a hot day, it appears. We restocked our water supply from the Froiz supermarcado next door to our hotel (how convenient!) The young lady who took our payment wore a name badge with my surname on it. “Mira mi apellido es el mismo que el tuyo,” I said in the most Castilian manner, showing her my driver’s license. Here I am, dark with sunburned, expecting a Castilian snob. Much to my surprise, she gave a big smile and answered, “Así es, debemos estar relacionados.” Or something like it as she handed the change. Flattered to be thought of as a relation, I took the change and exited, lest I have to explain how we are related. Later, I have to admit the Galicians we have met so far have been pleasant and welcoming.
The taxi dropped us off at Don Pulpo. The same cafe where we rested the day before. It was early; the cafe had just opened but the young counter lady obliged our order of ham sandwiches (oh, how many of these we’ve had). With better provisions, we joined the trailhead from the cafe, passing through the cobblestone streets that rejoins the N550.
The terrain was flat (that’s good) and we wind in and out of dirt trails and the N550 highway; cross railroad tracks, and wander into scattered villages. Mid-morning, we snacked on our sandwiches along an old limestone fence. Fellow pilgrims scattered themselves along the trail, taking a breather and drinking water. We rejoin the trail. An elderly man greeted us with Buen Camino. Curious, he asked in English where we came from. Filipinos from San Francisco, we answered. He was from Mexico and came to Madrid to visit his daughter. Jose introduced himself and said that he thought he might do the Camino Portuguese while he was in Spain. He’s done the Camino Frances and estimated that he’d get to Santiago in two days at least. It impressed us, of course. With our pace, it will be another four days before we even reach Santiago. He seemed like a spry older man and carried very little—a small backpack, a 2-litter plastic bottle, his hat, and a walking pole. We tried keeping up with his stride but gave up after a hundred meters. We apologized that we’d slow him down and bade him Bon Camino.
The trail was busy with all sorts of walkers. Not too long after Jose was gone, a couple of women on trail bikes in their athletic gear declared their presence, uttering Bon Camino as they drove by. Our eyes track them, following the dirt path. They would stop now and then and pick on the grapes that grew by the village road. We caught up with them, as they stopped at a group of workers harvesting grapes. They were Americans. They invited us to join them and have some grapes.
A young boy came up and offered Pat a grape bunch. The workers’ unexpected friendliness delighted us.
Sensing a video opportunity, I asked if I could film them picking grapes. “Con mucho gusto.” an older lady exclaimed. She was their leader, it seemed. They went into singing. It was heartwarming. A true Camino gift.
We stuffed the grapes they gifted us for later consumption and move on. The cyclist vanished into the horizon. We won’t ever see them again. Up ahead was a roadside cafe. We weren’t intending to stop but as we pass by, someone seated at the patio tables hailed us, waving his arms about. It was Jose!
Pinoy Spotting 2 On the Camino
Jose was waving and pointing at a couple seated beside him. We went in to join them. Seated with Jose were Jonathan, Maribel, and Henry. Jose had found Filipinos on the trail. They were from San Francisco too, on their second Camino. We exchanged some pleasantries in the vernacular- hometown, schooling, residence; and a promise to look us up in San Francisco where I manage an art non-profit on Mission St.
After all these gifts, arriving at Caldas de Reis was almost anti-climactic. Our hotel is a spa with its own hot spring pool. The hotel must have been grand in its days. Large halls and a foyer with a grand piano in the corner. Our rooms were at pool level, nice and comfy, but still a short walk to the dining room. We set down our gear and checked out the bar if they have something to offer for lunch. Closed. It was past 2 pm. We found a bakery down the road called Caprichos. I had espresso, Pat, a bottle of melocoton juice, and ham croissants.
St. Thomas Becket, An English Saint on the Camino: A Paradox?
Caldas de Reis town has its own charm, although it might have seen better days, notwithstanding the pandemic. We explored a botanical garden across the street from our cafe. The garden was lush but unkempt and the river walk was unattended. Algae and water lilies overran the stilled river. We wanted to check out the church of St. Thomas a Becket. Yes, the English clergy, archbishop of Canterbury, and Chancellor whose conflict with King Henry II led to his assassination, martyrdom, and sainthood. After his brutal death, a cult devoted to him grew around Europe. The church is usually closed (for security, the hotel staff said), but opens just before an evening Mass. I could take some pictures but no sello was available. St. Thomas Becket piqued my curiosity because decades ago, Stanford sent me to explore the possibility of digitizing Parker Library’s medieval library in Cambridge, England. My skin briefly tingled as I held the prayer book that belonged to Thomas Becket. The Camino works in mysterious ways indeed.
A small plaza with a hot water fountain is down the alley. They advised pilgrims to heal their tired feet in the fountain. We found a couple of guys doing just that. Their faces glowed with satisfaction. Surely, a testimonial to the hot spring’s efficacy. Our turn was next. Pat took a dip, squirming with delight as the hot water ran through her exhausted feet and toes.
At dinner time, we found a quiet restaurant by the main road; passing by colorful street shrines for pilgrims along the way.
While waiting for the restaurant to open, a troupe of male and female cyclists, Canadian they claim, came in as well. They started from Pontevedra and were hoping for a decent meal. Seated, at last, I ordered monkfish; Pat, seafood, and Sidra for both of us. We intend to sleep well tonight. On the walk back to the hotel, we pass by the river lake that graces the popular O Muino restaurant and ended a peaceful day with eye candy.
