After a perfect cup of café con leche at the Noche y Dia Café we took a 6:45 bus from Muxía back to Santiago. We had just enough time for a second cup there before boarding a train for Madrid. Traveling southeast, only an hour from Galicia’s lush microclimate, we passed through snow covered mountains along the northern Portugal border. They are big on alternative energy here so the mountain tops were strewn with windmills.
It feels uncomfortably strange not walking. Looking out the window from our train I kept spotting footpaths and wishing I was out there. I miss the smell of the Eucalyptus trees, the cracked open chestnut pods, the fig trees and the giant mushrooms. I miss the cow dung on the stone streets of those small towns and those long lonely stretches in the the mountains. We were lost a few times on the Camino and now I’m lost without it. Where is that next yellow arrow?
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The peregrine ritual. Bruce Chatwin once said he could not write unless he was walking.