Knowing that it didn't get light until 7.30, I decided to get up a little later on Tuesday. I had a slice of Spanish omelette and Bruno wished me well with 'good trip, good trip'. I walked onto the main road and began my 20km ascent in the hard shoulder. There was some good news; this road was much quieter than the one going into Ponteareas. As I reached the towns outskirts I was approached by a couple of old men asking me if I was doing the Camino de Santiago. I explained in broken Spanish what I was doing; 'esta lejos para une chica!' they exclaimed. At around 10 o'clock there was a mild sense of peril as my gps cursor disappeared on my map but returned an hour later. Situated on one of the many false peaks I reached that day was a bus stop with a spring. As I went to drink a random man came and readjusted my rucksack for me, speaking unremittingly in soft Gallician so that I don't think it was odd at all. Later, at around 11.30, and this was worse false hope than all the false peaks combined, an old man told me that it would go down hill soon. At 2.30 I finally began to descend into the valley of A Caniza, stopping briefly for a sandwich so that my legs wouldn't seize up. I listened to some Dire Straits, thinking it would cheer me up, but at this point I felt so sorry for myself I somehow managed to translate Telegraph Rd as a microcosm for my own predicament. 5km before A Caniza I turned off the main road onto a snaking farm track. I foolhardly tried to zip straight down the mountain but I was soon confronted by waist deep brambles and had to do the walk of shame back up, which almost killed all my resolve, so that when a pink eyed mangy dog approached me I practically invited it to maul me just so it could all be over with. Just my luck that it was crippled and looked inbred to the point that it only had half a functioning brain. When I finally arrived in A Caniza I called Samantha, my host for the night, and jibajabbered down the phone. Samantha came and peeled me off the pavement and took me to her friends bar where I drowned my sorrows in a glass of coke. I taped up my feet and generally tried to collect my thoughts whilst the regulars looked at my route plan and tutted. My lips were so dry and burned the top one had turned yellow. Eddie, the brother of the bar owner, applauded my cause, saying I would see real Spain and how it was really like three countries. When it was time to go, Eddie took a picture for the bars Facebook page and everyone hugged and kissed me, which was pretty nice. I had completely forgotten that I wasn't supposed to have dinner at Samanthas but she made me eggs and vegetables anyway. We discussed what I should do, as my next stop Outomoro, was another mountain away, and I didn't think I could make it. I went to bed uncertain about both my options; either walk tomorrow and try and find a hostel before Outomoro or take a bus to Ourense, stay a night, and walk to Allariz the next day. In the end I decided to stay another night in A Caniza which felt right straight away. Post shower and salt bath my troubles felt halved and I slept like a baby.
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