I walked out of Verin on the N road, trying to remember the route from the camino map I'd looked at the night before. The path climbed up the mountain, through controlled burning sights and past forestries, and I tried not to think about how much I was asking of myself to get to A Gudina. I was a Homeric hero, immune to physical pain and strong willed, Odysseus didn't cry to his mum on Skype when he had a set back. No, he looked pensively out to sea, then slaughtered a pig or made love to a wanton nymph. I munched on my croissant.
Near the peak a mist descended on the mountain, and I came upon a rather spooky cemetery but lost the camino. I ran around on the top of this stupid mountain and lost height when I didn't want to. I dropped down onto an N road where I found a sign for A Eirexa; with attractions including a casa culture, which I had read doubled as an albergue. I pounded the road towards the village, my resolve for trying to find the camino again had dwindled.
As I walked through a neighbouring village my phone died. This was fine because I had a back up battery, but when I turned my phone on again it said 'locked sim'. This was not fine. In despair I approached A Eirexa and found the Albergue shut up with not a soul in sight. It then began to rain. Telling myself that my star was still shining, I pulled out my sleeping bag and roll mat and put both inside my survival bag, then I climbed inside. There was a overhanging from the albergue which I was sheltering under but the wind was blowing the rain into it. Two or so hours passed and I faded in and out of consciousness with each passing car. Any passer bys view of me was obscured my the monastry wall (which was another thing - I was sleeping next to dead people). The light of day was fading and whilst the rain had stopped, it was getting colder. Suddenly I heard the scuttling of four sets of paws above my head and a man's voice saying 'ay'. From within my survival bag I deliberated the likelihood that it was another wierdo, but a Spaniard walking their dog was a rare species and so I poked my head it. The old man looked like he'd seen a ghost as I tried to explain in broken Spanish that I had wanted to sleep in the albergue and that I was a pilgrim not a tramp. He told me to pack up my bag and he would return with a car. He kept to telling me to be calm, he was married and only wanted to make sure I was safe. I felt completely at ease with him and he returned, as promised, ten minutes later. We drove into the centre of the village and he organised with the farmers about having the albergue opened, in a mean time, he said I should eat something. By this time it was late, and he drove me to a service station cafe on the outskirts of Rios, where I had Gallician broth and a massive steak which I could only just stomach. I had found another guardian angel, the kind of one that everyday we are made to believe are far and few between. After I finally convinced him that I could eat no more, he drove me to the albergue where I was greeted by some very friendly dogs and the guardian, Moisos. He showed me around the huge building, which had hosted the resident priest and an exhibition on mushrooms and chestnuts but as yet, no pilgrims. There were five sets of bunk beds, toilets, showers, a kitchen with a tv. I hobbled to my room were I peeled my poor feet out of my socks - they were a sorry sight, particularly the right one which had a vast oozing blister on the heel. I felt every single bone and muscle in my body aching for sleep and so I crawled back into my slightly soggy sleeping and let Nick Drake guide me through my hopes and fears.
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