Leaving Cacabelos over a high stone bridge we headed up the hill through lush farm land. It’s like a fruit bowl, there’s peach and plum, cherry and fig, almond, orange and grape. One cherry tree’s branches are bowed down under the weight of ripe fruit and we’re sorely tempted. Noticing the path is carpeted in disguarded pips we chanced a sample. All but the furthest and highest branches had been denuded, but where there’s a will there’s a way and the juice of morning cool fresh cherries was soon running down our chins – they were glorious! We’d’ve been hard pressed to justify our innocence had the farmer popped out with pitch fork at that moment, covered in juice standing on a pile of wet cherry pips.
At the top of the hill you can take the road or wind through the hills and villages. We took the latter path, not being overly fond of traffic noise and are rewarded with a delightful stroll through vineyards and down into this kind of secret valley, a small ghost village drawn back into the lush vegetation of the valleys fold, small yard-vegie-gardens, mud brick homes, dappled light through thick green foliage.
The dirt road rose up steeply from the village through light forest and up out into vineyards again. We followed the contour to round a white-washed black slate roofed home atop a green vine striped hill, framed by high topped confers. I think i exceeded my SIM limit taking photos of it. Workers in the field were singing as they wipper snipped (I know), and the whole scene looked like something out of an advert to visit vineyards-holiday paradise. We met a Spanish couple here, ‘La Canterina’, (the name of the vineyard) they say, ‘very beautiful in all of Spain, like a woman singing’. They’re so chilled, strolling at snails pace, like they’re walking around the block.
Eventually we wound down into Villafranca, a larger but nonetheless beautiful town dating back to the 11th century. It was the final resting place before the ‘grueling’ climb up to O Cebreiro.
The 12th-century Church of Santiago features the “Door of Forgiveness”. Historically, pilgrims who were too sick or injured to complete the final trek to Santiago de Compostela could pass through this door to receive the same papal indulgences as if they had reached the cathedral (wiki).
We catch up with Wolfgang and Yalinde here, who we’d enjoyed a drink with in Molinaseca and enjoy a beer in the sunny square before moving on. There’s a lush garden by the church and a beautiful bridge over the river leaving town.
There’s an alternate off road route here and we’d decided to take it. In a hundred yards of ridiculously steep path, and a review of the guide book (‘800m, steep, rocky, 3 peaks, for the very fit only’) Di decides it’s not her thing (a very good call in hindsight), and takes the road, but I’m keen to climb. There was considerable tension between us at this point, Di preferring that we stay together, but we part nonetheless, uncomfortably, and take our various paths.
The off road path climbed very steeply for hours, through forest and scrub, sometimes contouring the mountain sometimes raking up higher and higher to just below the mountains peak before disappearing into pine forest, Villafranca a mosaic of tiny cottages far below.
Eventually the flora morphed into large green plain tree-like forest comfortably spaced across steeply sloping light green grass, a kind of high park land, surely planted. It ended at Platera, where it drops steeply on gravel track into Trabadelo.
Di’s path took her along winding road by the swiftly flowing river, past stacked forest timber and cascading waters before she gets to Trabadelo about 15min before me.
The albergue is an 1800s school house, we’re in the old priests room. It’s right next to the church, with lovely views over the very small town. The showers and toilets are shared and very small. I shower with a Swiss woman, not directly of course, but the two cubicles are small and neither of us want to step in under the cold water, nor drop our jocks in public….tricky.
Trabadelo is an example of a town just hanging on with Camino support. It’s in desperate need of maintenance and apart from a couple of albergues and an unlikely modern hotel and restaurant, there’s not a lot going on.
We wander down to the restaurant and hook up with our Namibian friends Pierre and Linda. It’s 19 euro for a three course meal (trout, pork, salad, etc. etc.) and a bottle of wine, outstanding! Pierre’s tails of Vindtuk, South Africa, Cricket, the Comrades and their son’s, have us lost in time and we have to sprint back to make the 9pm curfew.
